ill 


THE  EXCURSimS  OFA 
'       BOO#l!bVE 


!l 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2008  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/excursionsofbookOOmarv 


THE  EXCURSIONS  OF  A 
BOOK- LOVER 

BEING  PAPERS  ON  LITERARY 
THEMES 

BY 
FREDERIC  ROWLAND  MARVIN 


"Dearly  beloved  old  pigskin  tomes  t 
Of  dingy  hue  —  old  bookish  darlings ! 
Oh  cluster  ever  round  my  rooms. 
And  banish  strifes,  disputes,  and  snarlings.'' 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  COMPANY 

1910 


Copyright,   1910 
Sherman  French  &  Company 


Q 


M3^ , 


-7 


CQ 
H 


TO 

c^  PERSIS 

■^  MY    BELOVED    WIFE 

j^  IN    GLAD    REMEMBRANCE    OF 

CD  A    HAPPY    MARRIED    LIFE 

■X 


liiy-f  rf'  0'a> 


iO 


THIS  book  is  precisely  what  its 
name  indicates.  The  papers 
of  which  it  is  composed  represent 
the  many  pleasant  evenings  which 
a  Book-lover  has  passed  in  delight- 
ful association  with  what  an  Eng- 
lish poet  has  called  "  the  sweet 
consolers  of  the  mind."  There  is 
no  plan  or  special  purpose  in  the 
arrangement.  The  Excursionist's 
migrations  were  not,  all  of  them, 
"  from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown." 
He  visited  the  libraries  of  his 
friends  where  he  found  not  only 
the  goodly  fellowship  of  many  rare 
volumes,  but  the  companionship  of 
kindred  souls,  and  the  joy  of  a 
fragrant  cigar.  The  gladness  of 
many  evenings  is    in   these  pages. 

F.  R.  M. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.     BOOKS 1 

11.  AN  OLD-TIME  BIBLIOPHILE    .       .       39 

III.  LITERARY  FAME 53 

IV.  BOOK  DEDICATIONS     ....       83 
V.  AUTHORS  AND  PUBLISHERS    .       .111 

VI.     ETHAN  BRAND 129 

VII.  THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS .       .       .       .153 

VIII.  THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK    .     179 

IX.  SHAKSPEARE'S  BONES        .       .       .213 

X.     HOLOGRAPHS 235 

XI.  AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY   .     275 


I 

BOOKS 


Collegian. 

Did  you,  ere  we  departed  from  the  college, 
O'erlook  my  library? 

Servant. 

Yes,  sir;  and  I  find 
Although  you  tell  me  learning  is  immortal, 
The  paper  and  the  parchment  'tis  contain'd  in. 
Savours  of  much  mortality. 
The  moths  have  eaten  more 
Authentic  learning  than  would  richly  furnish 
A  hundred  country  pedants ;  yet  the  wormes 
Are  not  one  letter  wiser. 

—  Glapthorn's  "Wit  in  a  Constable." 


BOOKS 


"And  I  would  urge  upon  every  young  man,  as 
the  beginning  of  his  due  and  wise  provision  for 
his  household,  to  obtain  as  soon  as  he  can,  by  the 
severest  economy,  a  restricted,  serviceable,  and 
steadily — however  slowly  —  increasing  series  of 
books  for  use  through  life;  making  his  little  library, 
of  all  the  furniture  in  his  room,  the  most  studied 
and  decorative  piece;  every  volume  having  its  as- 
signed place,  like  a  little  statue  in  its  niche,  and 
one  of  the  earliest  and  strictest  lessons  to  the  chil- 
dren of  the  house  being  how  to  turn  the  pages  of 
their  own  literary  possessions  lightly  and  delib- 
erately, with  no  chance  of  tearing  or  dog's  ears." 

John  Ruskin. 

NO,  Mr.  Ruskin,  the  man  who  would  make  of 
books  lasting  and  intimate  friends  will 
never  proceed  in  the  way  you  recommend.  The 
man  who  truly  loves  good  books  will  draw  theni 
to  himself  by  a  subtile,  mysterious,  and  inde- 
scribable attraction.  Books  will  not  decorate  his 
shelves,  "each  volume  having  its  assigned  place, 
like  a  little  statue  in  its  niche,"  but,  like  friends, 
they  will  gather  around  him  in  affectionate  com- 
panionship. They  will  commune  with  him.  Be- 
tween him  and  them  there  will  be  absolutely  no 
ceremony.  He  will  attract  such  books  as  give 
him  pleasure,  and  the  night  will  be  turned  into 
day  with  the  splendor  of  their  hallowed  fellow- 
ship.    Charles  Lamb,  beloved  of  all  book-lovers, 


2        EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

used  sometimes  to  kiss  the  quaint  and  curious  vol- 
umes that,  open  upon  his  desk,  awaited  his  com- 
ing. They  were  to  him  in  no  wise  hke  httle 
statues.  They  were  his  dearest  friends.  Thus 
tenderly  the  author  of  Elia  discourses  of  a  noble 
library : 

"It  seems  as  though  all  the  souls  of  all  the 
writers,  that  have  bequeathed  their  labours  to  these 
Bodleians,  were  reposing  here,  as  in  some  dormi- 
tory, or  middle  state.  I  do  not  want  to  handle,  to 
profane  the  leaves,  their  winding-sheets.  I  could 
as  soon  dislodge  a  shade.  I  seem  to  inhale  learn- 
ing, walking  amid  their  foliage,  and  the  odour  of 
their  old  moth-scented  coverings  is  fragrant  as  the 
fruit  bloom  of  those  sciential  apples  which  grew 
amid  the  happy  orchard." 

When  you  know  a  man's  enemies,  you  know  as 
well  something  of  his  character.  The  hostility  of 
the  right  man  is  an  honor  not  to  be  despised.  In 
the  same  way  one  may  form  some  opinion  of  a 
book  by  the  aversions  which  it  awakens.  Books, 
like  their  readers,  have  their  own  special  enemies, 
and  it  would  be  by  no  means  a  difficult  task  to 
single  out  and  name  at  least  one  or  two  famous 
works  that  have  created  no  small  amount  of 
hatred  and  contention.  But  there  are  certain 
general  enemies  that  in  all  lands  and  in  every  age 
attack  good  books  of  every  kind,  and  that  not  in- 
frequently menace  literature  itself.  An  able 
author  whose  friendship  I  have  long  enjoyed,  but 
whose  name  it  would  be  a  breach  of  confidence  to 
disclose,  told  me  that  he  always  numbered  among 


BOOKS  8 

the  worst  enemies  of  literature  the  ordinary  pub- 
lisher.    I  give  his  words  as  I  remember  them: 

"The  publisher  of  such  cheap  books  as  are  sold 
on  railroad  trains,  and  are  greedily  devoured  on 
the  verandas  of  fashionable  hotels  and  public 
houses  where  idlers  and  pleasure-seekers  gather — 
the  publisher  of  such  books  is  certainly  to  be  re- 
garded as  one  of  the  most  dangerous  of  all  the  re- 
morseless enemies  that  books  of  whatever  kind  may 
have.  He  prints  for  the  dollars  they  bring  him 
novels  of  no  worth  whatever,  and  that  crowd  from 
every  available  place  such  books  as  inform  the  mind 
and  arouse  the  mental  energies.  He  prints  poor 
fiction  by  the  cord  as  men  saw  hickory  logs.  There 
is,  however,  this  important  difference:  the  wood  is 
reserved  for  merry  flames  that  leap  and  dance  upon 
the  hearth,  shedding  warmth  and  cheer  through 
long  winter  evenings,  while,  since  the  day  when 
the  Holy  Inquisition  went  out  of  business,  books 
(even  the  worst  of  them)  have  escaped  such  con- 
suming and  purifying  fires.  Yet  now  and  then 
some  large  and  pretentious  printing  establishment, 
by  rare  good  fortune,  goes  up  in  flame  and  smoke; 
and  a  worse  than  worthless  stock  of  misused  paper 
sheds  upon  our  dark  world  for  one  brief  hour  the 
only  effulgence  it  is  capable  of  diffusing.  The  mer- 
cenary publisher  is  but  a  shade  less  objectionable 
than  the  mercenary  clergyman.  He  is  the  evil 
genius  of  the  world  of  letters.  Not  a  book  of  real 
value  will  he  touch,  and  not  an  unknown  writer  of 
ability   will  he  help   to  name  or   fortune." 

It  may  be  that  my  friend  is  too  severe  in  his 
judgment,  and  uncharitable  in  his  somewhat 
sweeping  accusations.  Yet  when  every  allow- 
ance has  been  made,  and  the   exceptional   pub- 


4         EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

lishers  have  been  suitably  acknowledged  and  com- 
mended, is  there  not  a  substantial  foundation  of 
truth  beneath  the  seemingly  harsh  indictment? 
Some  time  ago  I  made  for  my  own  amusement  a 
list  of  such  unusually  good  books  as  I  could  think 
of  that  had  been  "turned  down"  by  more  than  one 
publisher  of  excellent  standing  before  at  last  they 
came  into  the  hands  of  men  who  had  courage  and 
enterprise.  The  list  was  at  once  surprising  and 
humiliating.  It  included  many  of  the  best  and 
most  famous  of  the  books  that  will  live.  William 
R.  Alger's  "History  of  the  Doctrine  of  a  Future 
Life,"  with  a  wonderful  catalogue  of  more  than 
five  thousand  works,  in  many  languages,  relat- 
ing to  the  nature,  origin,  and  destiny  of  the  soul, 
and  having  an  Appendix  giving  an  exhaustive 
list  of  books  treating  of  "the  souls  of  brutes,"  has 
now  passed  through  fifteen  editions.  The  author 
gave  ten  years  of  hard  study  to  the  monumental 
work,  and  when  the  book  was  completed  there 
was  not  a  publisher  in  all  the  land  who  would  give 
it  the  slightest  consideration.  The  book  would 
have  remained  unpublished  had  not  Mr.  George 
W.  Childs,  who  was  applied  to,  discovered  its  im- 
portance. Mr.  Childs  would  not  at  first  believe 
that  there  could  be  any  difficulty  in  obtaining  a 
publisher,  but  when  he  was  made  aware  of  the 
situation  he  at  once  enabled  the  author  to  give 
his  great  work  to  the  world.  It  would  not  be  dif- 
ficult to  cite  many  other  cases  which  lend  quite  as 
forcible  an  endorsement  to  my  friend's  seemingly 


BOOKS  5 

severe  arraignment  of  the  publishing  fraternity. 
The  newspaper,  so  it  seems  to  me,  might  be 
counted  in  with  the  enemies  of  good  books.  Not 
erery  periodical  is  to  be  classed  with  "the  workers 
of  iniquity."  There  are  worthy  papers  and 
magazines,  though  there  are  fewer  of  these  than 
most  men  believe.  Yet  it  is  true  that  thousands 
of  journals  are  without  concealment  the  foes  of 
whatever  is  noble  and  good  in  the  great  world  of 
letters.  The  man  of  affairs  who  might  by  some 
acquaintance  with  worthy  books  save  himself  from 
being  buried  alive  beneath  all  that  is  sordid  and 
vulgar,  is  literally  thrust  into  his  grave  with  the 
breath  of  life  still  in  his  body  by  mercenary  edi- 
tors who  print  and  circulate  countless  pages  of 
rubbish.  These,  not  content  with  slaughtering 
the  language  in  which  they  profess  to  print  their 
papers,  destroy  as  well  the  soul  of  all  high  think- 
ing.   Wendell  Phillips  wrote  many  years  ago: 

"It  is  momentous,  yes,  a  fearful  truth,  that  the 
millions  have  no  literature,  no  school,  and  almost 
no  pulpit  but  the  press.  Not  one  in  ten  reads 
books.  But  every  one  of  us,  except  the  very  few 
helpless  poor,  poisons  himself  every  day  with  a 
newspaper.  It  is  parent,  school,  college,  pulpit, 
theatre,  example,  counselor,  all  in  one.  Every 
drop  of  our  blood  is  colored  by  it.  Let  me  make 
the  newspapers,  and  I  care  not  who  makes  the  reli- 
gion or  the  laws." 

Never  were  truer  words  uttered  or  printed. 
The  newspaper-habit,  like  the  opium-habit  and 
the  thirst  for  alcohol,  is  a  great  national  evil. 


6         EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Could  about  two- thirds  of  the  journals  now  pub- 
lished be,  by  some  stroke  of  magic  wand,  swept 
into  the  already  overcrowded  United  States 
Pharmacopoeia,  to  be  henceforth  dispensed  only 
upon  the  issuance  of  a  physician's  prescription, 
as  are  other  and  less  dangerous  poisons,  it  may 
be  there  would  be  few  of  the  poorer  journals  pub- 
lished, but  we  should,  beyond  doubt,  have 
stronger  minds,  purer  morals,  and  better  books. 

Another  enemy  of  good  books  is  the  public 
library.  Not  every  library  is  to  be  counted  in 
with  the  foes  of  our  best  literature.  No  sane  man 
could  wish  to  suppress  the  Bodleian  Library  at 
Oxford,  the  Emmanuel  Library  at  Cambridge,  or 
the  Library  of  Harvard  University.  For  these 
let  us  be  ever  thankful !  But  think  for  a  brief 
moment  of  the  Library  of  Congress  at  Washing- 
ton— that  vast  dumping  ground  for  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  copyrighted  books  ! 

In  England  few  persons  purchase  books.  Read- 
ers borrow  from  circulating  libraries.  In 
America  things  are  different.  We  like  to  own 
our  books.  One  may  see  in  even  the  open  coun- 
try little  libraries  that  belong  to  men  and  women 
of  humble  station  and  slender  purse.  We  write 
our  names  in  our  books,  and  scribble  upon  their 
margins  with  a  proud  feeling  of  ownership.  The 
books  belong  in  our  homes,  and  are  not  "to  be 
returned."  In  a  very  true  sense  they  are  friends 
and  companions.  But  alas!  how  often  they  are 
friends  no  wise  reader    can    afford    to    choose. 


BOOKS  7 

Books  are  cheap.  The  old-bookman  sells  thera 
by  the  bushel.  A  dime  will  buy  twenty-four  hours' 
worth  of  reading,  such  as  it  is,  allowing  for  skip- 
ping. Cheap  literature  is  a  national  evil.  Fewer 
books  and  better  ones  are  needed. 

"I  have  a  picture  hanging  in  my  library,"  wrote 
Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  "a  lithograph,  of  which  many  of  my  read- 
ers may  have  seen  copies.  It  represents  a  gray- 
haired  old  book-lover  at  the  top  of  a  long  flight  of 
steps.  He  finds  himself  in  clover,  so  to  speak, 
among  rare  old  editions,  books  he  has  longed  to 
look  upon  and  never  seen  before,  rarities,  precious 
old  volumes,  incunabula,  cradle-books,  printed 
while  the  art  was  in  its  infancy — its  glorious  in- 
fancy, for  it  was  born  a  giant.  The  old  book-worm 
is  so  intoxicated  with  the  sight  and  handling  of  the 
priceless  treasures,  that  he  cannot  bear  to  put  one 
of  the  volumes  back  after  he  has  taken  it  from  the 
shelf.  So  there  he  stands — one  book  open  in  his 
hands,  a  volume  under  each  arm,  and  one  or  more 
between  his  legs — loaded  with  as  many  as  he  can 
possibly  hold  at  the  same  time.  Now,  that  is  just 
the  way  in  which  the  extreme  form  of  book-hunger 
shows  itself  in  the  reader  whose  appetite  has  be- 
come over-developed.  He  wants  to  read  so  many 
books  that  he  over-crams  himself  with  the  crude 
materials  of  knowledge,  which  become  knowledge 
only  when  the  mental  digestion  has  time  to  assimi- 
late them." 

I  doubt  much  if  a  general  and  indiscriminate 
book-hunger  is  to  be  desired.  "Bibliophagia"  is 
a  new  word,  and  many  good  scholars  are  far  from 
pleased  when  they  see  it  in  print ;  yet  it  has  come 


8         EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

to  remain  with  us,  and  soon  or  late  every  diction- 
ary in  our  language  will  hail  its  arrival  and  bid 
it  welcome.  Book-hunger  is  not  exactly  like  the 
hunger  one  has  for  a  joint  of  beef;  it  is  less 
gross,  but  in  no  wise  less  rapacious.  Every  book- 
seller must  be  on  his  guard  against  the  man  who 
steals  books,  not  that  he  may  sell  them,  but  that 
he  may  own  them.  The  literary  and  book-loving 
thief  knows  precisely  what  he  wants,  and  he  is  a 
good  judge  of  values.  The  pockets  of  his  coat 
are  constructed  with  a  view  to  frequent  visits  to 
the  second-hand  bookseller,  whose  dusty  shelves 
have  a  charm  for  those  who  understand  such  mat- 
ters that  no  mere  Philistine  can  ever  comprehend. 
It  is  astonishing  how  much  the  literary  thief  can 
stow  away  in  safe  places.  When  he  is  so  unfor- 
tunate as  to  be  caught,  shame  does  not  greatly 
disturb  him.  He  is  far  more  anxious  about  the 
fate  of  his  plunder  than  he  is  about  that  of  his 
person. 

In  the  city  of  Albany,  where  gather  politicians 
great  and  small  from  every  corner  of  the  Empire 
State,  and  where  I  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to 
live  for  more  than  a  dozen  happy  years,  "Ye  Olde 
Booke  Man"  is  one  Joseph  McDonough,  a  prince 
among  the  mighty  and  sagacious  traders  in  rare 
and  curious  books  from  lands  far  and  near.  On 
his  sacred  shelves  the  dust  of  learning  is  soft  and 
deep,  and  before  one  is  aware  of  the  danger,  his 
most  holy  resolutions  are  reduced  to  even  finer 
dust.     Over  that  seductive  and  dangerous  store- 


BOOKS  9 

house  of  knowledge  the  public  authorities  should 
compel  the  good  Joseph  to  inscribe  for  the  protec- 
tion of  feeble  wills  and  debilitated  purses  the 
warning  of  Scripture,  "Lead  us  not  into  tempta- 
tion." Book-catalogues  are  seldom  regarded  as 
a  part  of  the  body  of  literature,  and  yet  surely 
some  such  catalogues  are  genuine  contributions  to 
that  department  of  polite  literature  we  call 
belles-lettres.  What  can  be  more  delightful  than 
a  well  printed  catalogue,  on  good  paper,  with 
wide  margins.  Some  such  are  rendered  still  more 
attractive  by  the  insertion  of  finely  executed 
prints  of  sumptuous  bindings  and  dainty  tail- 
pieces. Many  catalogues  are  as  well  composed 
as  they  are  printed,  and  so  it  comes  to  pass  that 
the  bookseller  is  not  infrequently  a  bookmaker 
whose  contributions  to  the  hbrary  are  worthy  of 
preservation.  How  a  well-prepared  catalogue 
stimulates  the  hunger  for  good  books!  This  the 
trained  bookseller  knows  full  well,  and  he  pon- 
ders upon  the  result  as  he  constructs  the  capti- 
vating pages. 

In  this  connection  it  may  be  interesting  to  note 
that  there  have  been  men  who,  under  pressure 
from  those  who  did  not  wish  them  well,  actually 
devoured  in  a  literal  and  not  in  a  figurative  sense 
the  printed  page.  Some  time  ago  the  Scientifc 
American  gave  its  readers  an  account  of  the  re- 
markable meals  of  certain  unfortunate  men: 

In  1370  Bamabo  Visconti  compelled  two  Papal 
delegates  to    eat   the   bull    of    excommunication 


10       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

which  they  had  brought  him,  together  with  its 
silken  cord  and  leaden  seal.  As  the  bull  was  writ- 
ten on  parchment,  not  paper,  it  was  all  the  more 
difficult  to  digest. 

A  similar  anecdote  was  related  by  Oelrich  in  his 
"Dissertatio  de  Bibliothecarum  et  Librorum 
Fatis,"  (1756),  of  an  Austrian  general  who  had 
signed  a  note  for  two  thousand  florins,  and  was 
compelled  by  his  creditor,  when  it  fell  due,  to  eat 
it. 

A  Scandinavian  writer,  the  author  of  a  politi- 
cal book,  was  compelled  to  choose  between  being 
beheaded  or  eating  his  manuscript  boiled  in  broth. 

Isaac  Volmar,  who  wrote  some  spicy  satires 
against  Bernard,  Duke  of  Saxony,  was  not  al- 
lowed the  courtesy  of  the  kitchen,  but  was  forced 
to  swallow  his  literary  productions  uncooked. 

Still  worse  was  the  fate  of  Philip  Oldenburger, 
a  jurist  of  great  renown,  who  was  condemned  not 
only  to  eat  a  pamphlet  of  his  writing,  but  also 
to  be  flogged  during  his  repast,  with  orders  that 
the  flogging  should  not  cease  until  he  had  swal- 
lowed the  last  crumb. 

We  cannot  think  such  dinners  good  for  diges- 
tion, but  perhaps  they  were  not  so  distasteful  as 
at  first  glance  they  appear.  We  do  remember  that 
a  book-lover  in  the  wild  west  wished  that  after  his 
death  his  body  might  be  opened,  and  that  under 
his  ribs,  close  to  his  heart,  there  might  be  stowed 
away  a  certain  little  book  that  he  had  treasured 
through  many  long  years.      Edwards,  the  book 


BOOKS  11 

collector,  left  written  instructions  with  regard  to 
his  coffin.  It  was  to  be  made  out  of  some  of  the 
strong  shelves  of  his  library.  Many  an  author 
would  like  to  have  one  or  two  of  his  books  laid 
upon  his  coffin,  or  could  wish  that  at  his  funeral 
some  choice  page  from  his  best  work  might  be 
read  by  a  literary  friend.  At  the  funeral  of 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  the  Rev.  Dr.  Van 
Dyke  read  verses  of  his  own  making  in  honor  of 
the  dead.  They  were  good,  but  doubtless  all  who 
were  present  would  have  much  preferred  to  hear 
some  tender  and  gracious  lines  penned  by  the  dead 
singer.  A  stereotyped  service  in  which  a  be- 
gowned  priest  is  the  thing  most  conspicuous,  and 
his  metallic  voice  the  sound  most  distinctly  re- 
membered, is  hardly  the  kind  of  service  an  artis- 
tic mind  would  find  pleasure  in  contemplating. 
The  Protestant  Episcopal  burial  service,  much 
lauded  in  certain  quarters,  is  well  adapted  to  the 
commonplace  ministrations  of  an  ordinary  priest, 
but  its  fixed  and  unalterable  sentences  and  sonor- 
ous but  insipid  platitudes  are  poorly  adjusted  to 
finer  needs.  When  they  laid  to  rest  the  gifted  and 
gentle  Whittier,  Mr.  Stedman  spoke  with  deep 
feeling  and  "a  trained  artist's  judgment,"  and 
those  who  heard  his  address  felt  that  the  right 
word  had  been  spoken. 

In  earlier  ages,  upon  funeral  occasions,  noble 
and  beautiful  words  were  uttered  by  men  who 
voiced  the  deep  feeling  of  a  true  heart.  We  turn 
the  page  yellowed  with    time,    and  come    to  the 


12       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

"doleful  complaints"  of  Sir  Ector  de  Moris  over 
the  dead  Sir  Launcelot.  What  manlj  grief  and 
noble  speech!     The  venerable  chronicler  tells  us: 

"And  then  Sir  Ector  threw  his  shield,  his  sword, 
and  his  helm  from  him;  and  when  he  beheld  Sir 
Launcelot's  visage,  he  fell  down  in  a  swoon;  and 
when  he  awoke,  it  were  hard  for  any  tongue  to 
tell  the  doleful  complaints  that  he  made  for  his 
brother.  'Ah!  Sir  Launcelot,'  said  he,  'thou  wert 
head  of  all  Christian  knights.  And  now  I  dare 
say,'  said  Sir  Ector,  'that  Sir  Launcelot,  there  thou 
best,  thou  wert  never  matched  of  any  earthly 
knight's  hands;  and  thou  wert  the  courtliest  knight 
that  ever  bear  shield;  and  thou  wert  the  truest 
friend  to  thy  lover  that  ever  bestrode  horse;  and 
thou  wert  the  truest  lover  of  a  sinful  man  that  ever 
loved  woman,  and  thou  wert  the  kindest  man  that 
ever  struck  with  sword;  and  thou  wert  the  good- 
liest person  that  ever  came  among  press  of  knights; 
and  thou  wert  the  meekest  man,  and  the  gentlest, 
that  ever  eat  in  hall  among  ladies;  and  thou  wert 
the  sternest  knight  to  thy  mortal  foe  that  ever  put 
spear  in  the  rest.'  " 

Blessed  is  the  man  who  lives  in  holy  fellow- 
ship with  great  and  noble  books.  His  is  a  world 
upon  which  no  evil  genius  may  breathe  the  blight 
of  a  selfish  and  unlovely  spirit.  Angels  wait 
upon  him  day  and  night.  His  solitude  is  peopled 
with  heavenly  companionship.  The  highest  de- 
light possible  to  man  is  his.  Before  him  open  the 
gates  of  Paradise. 


BOOKS  18 

II 

One  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  many 
books  that  from  a  Romish  point  of  view  ex- 
plain the  liturgies  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church 
is  "The  Mass  and  Vestments  of  the  Catholic 
Church,"  by  the  Rt.  Rev.  Monsignor  John 
Walsh,  a  learned  and  conscientious  priest  who 
ministers  to  St.  Mary's  Church  in  the  city  of 
Troy,  N.  Y.  The  book  is  all  the  more  interesting 
as  well  as  astonishing  because  of  the  unquestioned 
piety  and  unusual  frankness  of  the  author.  Theo- 
logians are  not  as  a  class  conspicuously  honest. 
The  amount  of  hedging  and  dodging  encoun- 
tered in  an  ordinary  book  on  divinity  or  on 
church  history  and  public  worship  is  enough  to 
demolish  the  faith  of  the  stoutest  believer.  If  a 
man  would  retain  the  sweet  and  simple  faith  of 
his  early  days  he  should  leave  untouched  the 
apologetics  of  every  school,  and  keep  himself  un- 
spotted from  theological  seminaries.  Walsh  has 
given  the  world  a  remarkable  book.  The  man 
himself  is  profoundly  honest.  He  believes  with- 
out question  or  reservation  of  any  kind  all  the 
astonishing  puerilities  and  trivialities  of  the  great 
religious  organization  of  which  he  is  a  repre- 
sentative. And  speaking  as  he  does,  with  author- 
ity, he  endorses  and  recommends  to  his  fellowmen 
what  he  himself  holds  to  be  true.  He  does  not 
see  that  the  very  sincerity  which  he  manifests 
renders  only  the  more  absurd  the  astonishing 
things  which  he  represents  to  be  of  importance 


14       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

in  the  sight  of  the  Creator  of  heaven  and  earth. 
That  the  self -existent  and  eternal  Spirit  "whose 
presence  bright  all  space  doth  occupy"  could  care 
anything  about  the  proportion  of  alcohol  al- 
lowed in  the  wine  set  apart  for  sacramental  pur- 
poses, or  that  it  could  be  of  any  consequence  to 
that  Spirit,  whether  raisins  steeped  in  water 
and  crushed  in  a  wine  press  for  Eucharistic  pur- 
poses were  to  be  accounted  true  wine,  seems  to  me 
a  thing  beyond  the  belief  of  a  sound  mind.  Think 
of  a  God  answering  to  the  Westminster  Assem- 
bly's definition  of  Deity — "a  Spirit,  infinite,  eter- 
nal, and  unchangeable  in  His  being,  wisdom, 
power,  holiness,  justice,  goodness,  and  truth" — 
think  of  such  a  God  concerning  Himself  about  a 
beeswax  candle  or  taking  the  slightest  interest  in 
the  head-covering  of  ecclesiastics.  Yet  here  is  a 
learned  and  sincere  man  who  thinks  these  things 
are  worth  writing  about,  and  who  believes  that 
the  Eternal  One  of  whom  we  can  have  no  adequate 
conception  gives  thought  to  such  trivialities. 

I  honor  the  man  who  in  an  age  like  this  has  a 
real  faith,  and  who  stands  by  it  under  all  circum- 
stances, but  I  can  have  no  personal  interest  in  a 
faith  that  is  not  reasonable.  Some  kind  of  an- 
thropomorphism we  must  have.  The  sacred 
writings  of  all  lands  represent  the  Eternal  Spirit 
as  possessed  of  a  body,  and  they  ascribe  to  Him 
such  physical  parts  and  acts  as  are  proper  to  man. 
He  is  said  to  hear,  speak,  come  and  go.  He  has 
eyes,  mouth,  ears,  hands  and  feet.    But  all  this  is 


BOOKS  15 

represented  as  analogy.  Fundamental  knowledge 
of  God  as  He  is  in  and  of  Himself,  and  apart 
from  all  His  creatures,  no  man  may  have.  I  must 
think  of  Him  under  some  form  or  shape,  and  yet 
that  form  or  shape  need  not  belittle  His  nature. 
That  is  to  say,  it  need  not  fall  below  the  thought 
and  imagination  of  a  cultivated  mind.  I  must 
think  of  Him  as  a  person,  though  an  infinite  per- 
son (attaching  to  the  term  its  natural  meaning) 
is  a  self -contradictory  phrase.  But  I  am  not  re- 
duced to  the  necessity  of  representing  Him  as  an 
arranger  of  altar-lights  and  a  fitter  of  priests' 
caps.  The  anthropomorphism  may  be  at  least 
abreast  of  the  best  there  is  in  man  and  the  age. 

More  and  more  we  are  coming  to  think  of  God 
as  inseparably  associated  with  nature,  as  working 
with  it  and  through  it.  We  would  not  undervalue 
the  Divine  revelation  in  man — "the  Word  was 
made  flesh" — but  modern  science  has  disclosed 
Him  in  nature  with  new  power  and  beauty.  This 
is  a  noble  view  of  His  presence  and  activity.  In 
the  blush  of  the  morning  and  in  the  evening 
breeze  He  is  present.  In  Him  as  in  a  mirror  is 
reflected  the  vast  universe.  You  may  call  this 
Pantheism  if  you  will,  but  it  remains  a  noble 
thought  of  the  Creator.  The  poet  apparels  it  in 
something  of  its  own  beauty  in  "Tintern  Abbey" : 

"I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts,  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused. 


16  EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns. 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man, — 
A  motion  and  a  spirit  which  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought. 
And  rolls  through  all  things." 

Perhaps  there  is  a  still  higher  reverence — a  rev- 
erence that  refuses  to  discuss  what  must  forever 
transcend  all  human  knowledge.  Have  we  rea- 
son to  believe  that  God  bears  any  real  resem- 
blance to  our  thought  of  Him.''  Is  there  any  de- 
scription that  describes  Him.?  The  Hebrew 
Scriptures  tell  us  that  "His  thoughts  are  not  as 
our  thoughts;"  that  "His  ways  are  past  finding 
out."  No  name  suffices  for  Him,  nor  can  any 
confession  encircle  Him. 

"Who  dares  express  Him? 
And  who  confess  Him, 
Saying,  I  do  believe.'' 
A  man's  heart  bearing, 
What  man  has  the  daring 
To   say:    I    acknowledge    Him    not? 
The  All-enfolder, 
The  All-upholder, 
Enfolds,  upholds  He  not 
Thee,  me.  Himself?" 

The  Incomprehensible  must  so  remain.  Over 
the  vast  chasm  that  sunders  the  Infinite  from  the 
finite  no  bridge  may  spring  its  arch.  If  I  can 
with  my  hands  make  no  graven  image,  am  I  to 
make  with  my  mind  another  image  less  gross  but 
perhaps   not    less  remote  from    the  unseen  Pres- 


BOOKS  17 

ence?  Is  there  not  also  this  danger,  that  my  life 
shall  be  conformed  to  a  pattern  having  no  resem- 
blance to  what  I  would  copy?  My  thought  as  such 
is  ductile  and  tractable,  but  may  it  not  harden 
into  unyielding  dogma?  Riding  over  the  hills 
beyond  the  little  village  of  Altamont,  I  saw 
builded  into  the  walls  that  mark  off  different 
farms  and  that  separate  them  from  the  highway, 
certain  stones  that  contain  shells.  Once  those 
stones  were  soft  mud  on  the  bottom  of  a  pre-his- 
toric  ocean.  The  wet  earth,  lifted  above  the  water 
by  some  tremendous  cosmic  unheaval,  hardened 
into  enduring  stone,  and  there  today  are  the 
shells  that  long  ages  ago  held  living  creatures. 

Other  things  than  mud  harden,  and  become  firm, 
solid,  and  compact.  In  man  conduct  tends  in  the 
direction  of  character,  and  mental  habits  become 
permanent.  Opinions  solidify  into  doctrines,  and 
these  after  a  time  we  no  longer  recognize  as  bone 
of  our  bone  and  flesh  of  our  flesh — they  seem  to 
us  Divine,  and  it  comes  to  pass  that  we  fall  down 
and  worship  them.  Our  only  safety  is  to  be  found 
in  the  cultivation  of  an  open  mind  ever  ready  to 
welcome  and  entertain  truth  from  whatever  quar- 
ter. 

Narrow  and  puerile  ideas  of  the  Divine  Pres- 
ence destroy  the  power  of  that  Presence.  The 
God  who  concerns  Himself  with  religious  trifles 
and  trinkets  will  be  found  to  concern  Himself 
with  nothing  more  important.  Here  lies  the 
danger  of  every  kind  of  Ritualism.    The  toy  and 


18       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

the  child  go  together,  ahke  in  cradle  and  pew. 
Vestments,  processions,  incense,  altar-cloth,  mitre, 
the  pastoral  staff,  and  candles — what  are  these  but 
the  sacred  tops,  balls,  and  kites  of  children  who 
long  ago  should  have  developed  into  full-grown 
men  and  women? 

This  thought  of  God  as  transcending  all  hu- 
man relationships, — as  not  only  more  than  man, 
but  different  from  him  in  every  way, — was  the 
highest  thought  of  the  Greek  mind.  ^schylus 
wrote  of  Zeus,  "He  exists  in  Himself."  Solon  in- 
voked Zeus  as  "the  source  of  life  and  death." 
Thus  ran  the  ancient  Dodonian  inscription  accord- 
ing to  Pausanias,  "Zeus  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  be." 
Everywhere  in  ancient  literature  we  are  charmed 
and  captivated  by  this  wonderful  thought  of  God 
which  represents  Him  as  "all  in  all."  This  was 
the  great  message  of  the  Hebrew  Scriptures, 
"God  is  not  a  man."  He  was  "The  Self-existent 
One" — He  was  Jahveh — "I  am  that  I  am."  And 
Jesus  taught  in  the  same  direction,  "God  is  a 
spirit,  and  they  that  worship  Him  must  worship 
Him  in  spirit  and  in  truth."  Everywhere  in  the 
Hebrew  writings,  and  in  the  words  of  Jesus,  is 
this  grandeur  of  inaccessible  solitude  lighted  by 
an  Infinite  Love.  Is  it  not,  then,  pitiable  that 
God  should  be  represented  by  any  church,  creed, 
or  book  as  not  only  a  man,  but  as  a  trivial  man, — 
one  who  concerns  himself  with  ecclesiastical  re- 
galia, candles,  and  things  of  that  kind.'' 


BOOKS  19 

III 

This  is  the  inscription  which  Dr.  Edward 
Everett  Hale  makes  Philip  Nolan  ask  to  have 
cut  into  the  stone  that  was  to  preserve  his 
memory,  and  with  it  the  delightful  writer  brings 
to  an  end  his  striking  and  strange  story  of  "The 
Man  Without  a  Country." 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
PHILIP   NOLAN, 

LIEUTENANT 

IN  THE  ARMY  OF 

THE  UNITED  STATES. 

"  He  loved  his  country  as  no  other  man  has  loved  her ; 
but  no  man  deserved  less  at  her  hands." 

Nonsense !  sheer  nonsense,  good  Dr.  Hale !  No 
sane  man  could  love  such  a  country  as  you  have 
described — a  country  that  could  treat  any  man, 
to  say  nothing  of  one  of  its  own  soldiers,  in  the 
way  you  have  represented  the  United  States  as 
having  treated  Philip  Nolan  in  the  story  of  which 
we  are  now  writing.  Love  for  such  a  country 
would  be  immoral,  were  it  possible,  and  possible 
it  certainly  is  not.  Nolan  was  a  j'oung  officer 
who  in  a  moment  of  exasperation  cried  out: 
"Damn  the  United  States!  I  wish  I  may  never 
hear  of  the  United  States  again !"  The  wish,  if 
it  really  was  a  wish,  was  beyond  question  not 
patriotic,  and  "damn"  is  not  exactly  a  Sunday 
School  word.  Perhaps  the  young  man  might 
have  been  punished  as  a  traitor,  but  in  that  case, 
while  the  United  States  would  have  gained  no 
glory,  we    should    be    the   losers    of  a  charming 


20       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

story.  Think  of  allowing  a  foolish  court-martial 
to  wipe  out  "The  Man  Without  a  Country"  as 
you  would  erase  with  a  wet  sponge  some  mark 
from  a  slate.  Of  course  that  is  what  would  have 
happened  had  the  author  of  that  picturesque 
oath  been  shot.  Dr.  Hale  entertains  a  strange 
idea  of  what  it  would  be  right  and  just  for  the 
United  States  Government  to  do  with  an  indis- 
creet and  hot-headed  young  soldier.  Think  of 
returning  in  these  days  to  the  cold-blooded  bru- 
tality of  Torquemada !  And  then  again,  think  of 
a  normally  constructed  man  cherishing  anything 
like  respect,  to  say  nothing  of  love,  for  the  kind 
of  country  Dr.  Hale  has  pictured.  There  are  in 
this  world  better  things  than  even  one's  country 
— God,  justice,  and  the  love  and  service  every 
man  owes  to  our  human  race,  these  come  first. 
The  noblest  patriotism  does  not  fling  its  cap  in 
air,  and  shout,  "My  country,  right  or  wrong!" 

Philip  Nolan  was,  notwithstanding  his  tempo- 
rary lapse  from  loyalty,  a  very  good  sort  of 
man ;  in  fact,  he  was  an  unusually  desirable  citi- 
zen. His  extreme  conscientiousness,  which,  since 
there  was  in  truth  no  such  man  as  Nolan,  must 
have  been  Dr.  Hale's  conscientiousness,  was  just 
the  peculiar  moral  quality  we  as  a  people  stand 
most  in  need  of.  All  the  time  that  our  unfortu- 
nate soldier  was  the  victim  of  a  cruelty  which  we 
are  asked  to  believe  was  a  reasonable  punishment, 
fat  politicians  of  all  political  complexions  were 
swindling  the  public  treasury  and  plundering  it 


BOOKS  2T 

without  shame.  It  is  fair  to  believe,  if  we  are 
to  listen  to  Dr.  Hale,  that  had  those  politicians 
got  the  word  "damn"  and  the  name  of  their 
country  into  anything  like  close  proximity,  the 
one  with  the  other,  they  would  have  been  treated 
to  the  fearful  punishment  of  a  life-long  cruise. 
But  surely  their  more  than  damnable  rascality 
and  corruption  were  worse  than  a  passionate  oath 
soon  repented  of.  Dr.  Hale's  book  is  everywhere 
praised  for  what  men  call  its  patriotic  teaching, 
but  to  my  mind  its  instructions  are  wrong  and  its 
story  immoral. 

IV 

Charles  Sumner  collected  a  large  and  valu- 
able library,  and  one  that  covered  many  sub- 
jects quite  foreign  to  the  one  absorbing  in- 
terest of  his  life.  To  be  sure,  some  of  the 
most  unpromising  works  contributed  to  the  liter- 
ary embellishment  of  his  public  addresses,  but 
still  not  a  few  of  them  were,  according  to  his  own 
statement,  as  far  away  from  his  personal  feeling 
and  experience  as  a  book  could  possibly  be.  Among 
his  books  were  some  treating  of  religious  doctrines 
as  such,  and,  what  seems  strange  enough  to  any 
one  who  will  give  the  matter  a  thought,  there 
were  among  these  some  that  were  much  the  worse 
for  use.  How  could  he  enjoy  the  old  English 
preachers  of  the  time  of  Bishop  Taylor  and  yet 
remain  wholly  destitute  of  religious  feeling?  So 
far  as  is  known  the  following  letter  which  Sum- 


22       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

ner  wrote  to  his  college  friend,  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Stearns,  of  Newark,  N.  J.,  is  the  only  record  we 
have  of  the  distinguished  statesman's  religious 
views.     As  such  it  has  a  permanent  interest: 

Cambridge,  Jan.   12,  1833. 

My  Dear  Friend: — I  have  received  and  am 
grateful  for  your  letter.  The  interest  you  manifest 
in  my  welfare  calls  for  my  warmest  acknowledg- 
ments. I  do  not  know  how  I  can  better  show  my- 
self worthy  of  your  kindness  than  with  all  frank- 
ness and  plainness  to  expose  to  you,  in  a  few  words, 
the  state  of  my  mind  on  the  important  subject  upon 
which  you  addressed  me. 

The  last  time  I  saw  you,  you  urged  upon  me 
the  study  of  the  proofs  of  Christianity,  with  an 
earnestness  that  flowed,  I  was  conscious,  from  a 
sincere  confidence  in  them  yourself,  and  the  conse- 
quent wish  that  all  should  believe;  as  in  belief  was 
sure  salvation.  I  have  had  your  last  words  and 
look  often  in  my  mind  since.  They  have  been  not 
inconstant  prompters  to  thought  and  speculation 
upon  the  proposed  subject.  I  attended  Bishop 
Hopkins'  lectures,  and  gave  to  them  a  severe  atten- 
tion. I  remained  and  still  remain  unconvinced  that 
Christ  was  divinely  commissioned  to  preach  a  reve- 
lation to  men,  and  that  He  was  entrusted  with  the 
power  of  working  miracles.  But  when  I  make  this 
declaration  I  do  not  mean  to  deny  that  such  a  being 
as  Christ  lived  and  went  about  doing  good,  or  that 
the  body  of  precepts  which  have  come  down  to  us 
as  delivered  by  Him,  were  so  delivered.  I  believe 
that  Christ  lived  when  and  as  the  Gospel  says;  that 
He  was  more  than  man,  namely,  above  all  men  who 
had  as  yet  lived — and  yet  less  than  God ;  full  of  the 
strongest  sense  and  knowledge,  and  of  a  virtue  su- 


BOOKS  23 

perior  to  any  which  we  call  Roman  or  Grecian  or 
Stoic,  and  which  we  best  denote  when,  borrowing 
His  name,  we  call  ourselves  Christians.  I  pray 
you  not  to  believe  that  I  am  insensible  to  the  good- 
ness and  greatness  of  His  character.  My  idea  of 
human  nature  is  exalted,  when  I  think  that  such  a 
being  lived  and  went  as  a  man  amongst  men.  And 
here,  perhaps,  the  conscientious  unbeliever  may  find 
good  cause  for  glorifying  his  God;  not  because  He 
sent  His  Son  into  the  world  to  partake  of  its  trou- 
bles and  be  the  herald  of  glad  tidings,  but  because 
He  suffered  a  man  to  be  born  in  the  world  in  whom 
the  world  should  see  but  one  of  themselves,  en- 
dowed with  qualities  calculated  to  elevate  the  stand- 
ard of  attainable  excellence. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  can  say  more  without  be- 
traying you  into  a  controversy,  in  which  I  should  be 
loath  to  engage,  and  from  which  I  am  convinced  no 
good  will  result  to  either  party.  I  do  not  think  I 
have  a  basis  for  faith  to  build  upon.  I  am  without 
religious  feeling.  I  seldom  refer  my  happiness  or 
acquisitions  to  the  Great  Father  from  whose  mercy 
they  are  derived.  Of  the  first  great  commandment, 
then,  upon  which  so  much  hangs,  I  live  in  perpetual 
unconsciousness — I  will  not  say  disregard,  for  that, 
perhaps,  would  imply  that  it  was  present  in  my 
mind.  I  believe,  though,  that  my  love  to  my 
neighbor — namely,  my  anxiety  that  my  fellow  crea- 
tures should  be  happy,  and  my  disposition  to  serve 
them  in  their  honest  endeavors — is  pure  and  strong. 
Certainly  I  do  feel  an  affection  for  everything  that 
God  created;  and  this  feeling  is  my  religion. 

"He  prayeth  well  who  loveth   well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small  ; 


24       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

I  ask  you  not  to  imagine  that  I  am  led  into  the 
above  sentiment  by  the  lines  I  have  just  quoted — 
the  best  of  Coleridge's  "Rime  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner" — but  rather  that  I  seize  the  lines  to  ex- 
press and  illustrate  my  feeling. 

This  communication  is  made  in  the  fulness  of 
friendship  and  confidence.  To  your  charity  and 
continued  interest  in  my  welfare,  suffer  me  to  com- 
mend myself  as 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

Chas.  Sumner. 

Very  different  is  a  letter  which  the  distin- 
guished philosopher  and  scientist,  Joseph  Henry, 
wrote  to  his  friend,  Mr.  Patterson,  concerning  his 
religious  belief.  It  was  the  last  letter  he  indited, 
and  it  was  not  mailed  because  he  intended  to  read 
it  over  before  he  sent  it  to  its  destination.  Mr. 
Patterson  never  received  it.  It  was  found  in  the 
drawer  of  Prof.  Henry's  desk  after  his  death.  Its 
interest  for  us  centers  in  the  fact  that  it,  like  the 
letter  of  Sumner's  writing,  gives  us  in  frank  and 
unconventional  fashion  the  religious  convictions 
of  a  man  of  great  learning  and  distinction.  It 
differs  from  Sumner's  letter  not  so  much  in  its 
spirit  and  temper  as  in  the  substance  of  the  be- 
lief which  it  sets  forth. 

The  letter  is  too  long  for  unabridged  trans- 
cription, but  a  few  salient  excerpts  may  be  given, 
and  from  these  the  reader  will  with  little  difficulty 
discover  the  drift  of  the  entire  letter : 


BOOKS  25 

"In  the  scientific  explanation  of  physical  phe- 
nomena we  assume  the  existence  of  a  principle  hav- 
ing properties  sufficient  to  produce  the  effects  which 
we  observe;  and  when  the  principle  so  assumed  ex- 
plains by  logical  deductions  from  it  all  the  phe- 
nomena, we  call  it  a  theory;  thus  we  have  the 
theory  of  light,  the  theory  of  electricity,  etc.  There 
is  no  proof,  however,  of  the  truth  of  these  theories 
except  the  explanation  of  the  phenomena  which 
they  are  invented  to  account  for.  This  proof,  how- 
ever, is  sufficient  in  any  case  in  which  every  fact 
is  fully  explained. 

"In  accordance  with  this  scientific  view,  on  what 
evidence  does  the  existence  of  a  Creator  rest?  First, 
it  is  one  of  the  truths  best  established  by  experi- 
ence in  my  own  mind  that  I  have  a  thinking,  will- 
ing principle  within  me,  capable  of  intellectual  ac- 
tivity and  of  moral  feeling.  Second,  it  is  equally 
clear  to  me  that  you  have  a  similar  spiritual  prin- 
ciple within  yourself,  since  when  I  ask  you  an  in- 
telligent question  you  give  me  an  intelligent  an- 
swer. Third,  when  I  examine  operations  of  na- 
ture I  find  everywhere  through  them  evidences  of 
intellectual  arrangements,  of  contrivances  to  reach 
definite  ends  precisely  as  I  find  in  the  operations  of 
man;  and  hence  I  infer  that  these  two  classes  of 
operations  are  results  of  similar  intelligence. 
Again,  in  my  own  mind  I  find  ideas  of  right  and 
wrong,  of  good  and  evil.  These  ideas,  then,  exist  in 
the  universe,  and  therefore  form  a  basis  of  our 
ideas  of  a  moral  universe.  Furthermore,  the  con- 
ceptions of  good  which  are  found  among  our  ideas 
associated  with  evil,  can  be  attributed  only  to  a  be- 
ing of  infinite  perfections  like  the  being  whom  we 
denominate  'God.'  On  the  other  hand  we  are  con- 
scious of  having  such  evil  thoughts  and  tendencies 
as  prevent  us  from  associating  ourselves  with  a  di- 


26       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

vine  being  who  is  the  director  and  the  governor  of 
all,  or  even  from  calling  upon  him  for  mercy  with- 
out the  intercession  of  one  who  may,  being  holy, 
yet  affiliate  himself  with  us." 

Of  all  published  statements  of  faith  or  of  want 
of  faith  it  seems  to  the  writer  that  the  Confession 
of  Octavius  Brooks  Frothingham,  made  by  him 
at  the  close  of  his  ministry  in  New  York,  and 
not  many  years  before  his  death,  is  the  saddest, 
and  in  some  ways  the  most  astonishing.  Mr. 
Frothingham  was  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1843, 
and  at  the  Cambridge  Divinity  School  three  years 
later.  His  first  pastorate  was  with  the  North 
(Unitarian)  Church  in  Salem,  where  he  remained 
about  eight  years.  His  second  charge  was  in  Jer- 
sey City,  and  lasted  four  years.  In  1860  he  be- 
came the  pastor  of  the  Third  Unitarian  Congre- 
gational Church  in  the  City  of  New  York,  and 
that  church  soon  after  his  settlement  with  it  be- 
came an  "Independent"  congregation,  while  Mr. 
Frothingham  became  widely  known  as  the  leader 
of  the  "Free  Religious  Movement."  Mr.  Froth- 
ingham's  reputation  as  a  brilliant  writer,  elo- 
quent speaker,  and  accomplished  scholar  was  not 
only  national,  but  world-wide.  Among  his  books 
— all  of  them  crowded  with  interest  and  literary 
charm — are  "Transcendentalism  in  New  Eng- 
land," "The  Religion  of  Humanity,"  "The  Life 
of  Theodore  Parker,"  "The  Life  of  George  Rip- 
ley," "The  Life  of  Gcrrit  Smith,"  "Recollections 
and  Impressions,"  "Boston  Unitarianism,"  "The 


BOOKS  27 

Cradle  of  the  Christ,"  "The  Spirit  of  the  New 
Faith,"  "The  Safest  Creed,"  "The  Beliefs  of  the 
Unbelievers,"  "The  Assailants  of  Christianity," 
"Visions  of  the  Future,"  and  a  large  number  of 
sermons,  with  several  books  of  Bible-stories  for 
children. 

After  a  ministry  in  New  York  of  about  twenty 
years  ]Mr.  Frothingham's  health  failed,  and  a  trip 
abroad  was  taken  without  any  change  in  the  di- 
rection of  recovery.  He  resigned  his  charge,  and 
for  the  few  years  that  remained  to  him  devoted 
himself  to  literature.  His  closing  years  were 
marked  by  an  increasing  melancholy  which  may 
have  been  due  in  part  to  ill-health.  He  was  dis- 
appointed in  the  result  of  his  life-work,  which  he 
accounted  to  have  been  in  some  measure  a  failure. 
Mr.  Frothingham  in  his  "Recollections  and  Im- 
pressions" ascribes  the  mental  and  spiritual  dis- 
quietude of  certain  distinguished  unbelievers  to 
"temperament"  and  to  the  subjective  results  of 
"transitional  periods,"  but  these  certainly  do  not 
entirely  account  for  the  extensive  distribution  of 
the  "downcast  mood"  among  unbelievers  of  widely 
differing  temperaments  and  circumstances  In 
countries  and  civilizations  far  removed  from  each 
other.  Doubt  and  unbelief,  though  they  may  not 
equally  depress  all,  have  yet  no  power  to  make 
any  either  strong  or  happy.  Elsewhere  Froth- 
ingham treats  of  Thomas  Paine,  but  there  is 
abundant  evidence  that  this  man  had  something 
of  the  "downcast  mood"  discoverable  In  Joseph 


28       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Blanco  White,  "George  Eliot,"  the  author  of 
"Physicus,"  Aaron  Burr,  Shelley,  and  Robes- 
pierre— widely  differing  temperaments,  disposi- 
tions, and  purposes.  And  yet  it  is  true  that  some 
devoted  Christians  have  shared  this  "downcast 
mood."  Cowper  was  quite  as  miserable  in  mind 
as  was  White — he  was  much  more  miserable  than 
Shelley,  and  it  must  be  remembered  that  a  great 
deal  of  Shelley's  misery  was  merely  poetry,  and 
then  he  was  in  ill-health. 

So  soon  as  it  was  known  that  Mr.  Frothing- 
ham  had  given  up  his  church  and  his  work,  the 
New  York  Evening  Post  secured  from  him  a 
statement  of  his  views  which  was  of  such  an  extra- 
ordinary character  as  to  command  the  interest 
and  attention  of  all  thoughtful  men.  A  sadder 
statement  it  is  hard  to  find.  From  it  we  excerpt 
these  lines: 

"One  fact  began  to  loom  up  before  my  mental 
vision  in  a  disquieting  way — that  the  drift  of  free- 
thought  teaching  was  unquestionably  toward  a  dead 
materialism,  which  I  have  abhorred  as  deeply  as 
any  evangelical  clergyman  I  know.  The  men  who 
would  become  leaders  in  the  free-thought  movement 
do  not  stop  where  I  stop;  they  feel  no  tradition 
behind  them;  they  have  no  special  training  for  the 
work  of  'restoring,'  in  which  light  I  regard  much 
of  my  work ;  I  did  not  aim  to  create  any  new  be- 
liefs or  to  tear  down  all  existing  ones,  but  to  re- 
store, to  bring  to  light  and  prominence  the  spir- 
itual essence  of  those  faiths.  .  .  .  The  men  whom  I 
saw  coming  upon  the  stage  as  the  apostles  of  the 
new  dispensation  of  free  thought  were  destroyers 


BOOKS  29 

who  tore  down,  with  no  thought  of  building  up; 
there  seemed  to  be  no  limit  to  their  destructive 
mania,  and  no  discrimination  in  their  work.  Their 
notion  seemed  to  be  to  make  a  clean  sweep  of  every 
existing  creed;  they  apparently  knew  not  and 
cared  not  whether  anything  in  the  shape  of  belief 
should  arise  from  the  ashes  of  the  world's  creeds. 

"The  situation,  therefore,  when  I  stopped 
preaching  and  went  to  Europe,  was  about  as  fol- 
lows: Evangelical  religion  was  stronger,  the 
churches  were  better  filled,  there  was  more  of  the 
religious  spirit  abroad  than  when  I  began  work 
twenty  years  ago.  Such  men  as  came  forward  as 
teachers  in  the  free-thought  movement  were  out- 
and-out  materialists.  Lastly,  my  own  position  was 
unpleasant  and  my  health  was  failing.  .  .  . 

"When  I  left  New  York  for  Europe  I  believed 
and  said  that  I  might  take  up  my  work  as  pastor 
of  an  independent  church  when  I  got  back.  But  I 
may  as  well  say  now  that  I  could  not  do  it.  I 
would  not  be  able  to  teach  as  I  did.  Whether  it  is 
that  advancing  years  have  increased  in  me  what- 
ever spirit  of  conservatism  I  may  have  inherited — 
my  father  was  a  clergyman — or  whether  it  is  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  devolution,  as  well  as  evo- 
lution, and  that  I  have  received  more  light,  I  do  not 
know.  But  it  is  certain  that  I  am  unsettled  in  my 
own  mind  concerning  matters  about  which  I  was 
not  in  doubt  ten  or  even  five  years  ago;  I  do  not 
know  that  I  believe  any  more  than  I  did  years  ago, 
but  I  doubt  more.  .  .  .  But,  looking  back  over  the 
history  of  the  last  quarter  of  a  century  with  the 
conviction  that  no  headway  whatever  has  been 
made;  with  the  conviction  that  unbridled  free 
thought  leads  only  to  a  dreary  negation  called  ma- 
terialism; there  has  been  a  growing  suspicion  in 
me  that  there  might  be  something  behind  or  below 


30       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

what  we  call  revealed  religion,  which  the  scientific 
thinkers  of  our  time  are  beginning  vaguely  to  dis- 
tinguish as  an  influence  that  cannot  be  accounted 
for  at  present,  but  which  nevertheless  exists.  .  .  . 
I  said  a  moment  ago,  let  scientific  investigation  go 
on  by  all  means ;  not  only  it  can  do  no  harm,  but 
I  am  sure  that  the  farther  it  goes  the  more  clearly 
will  scientific  men  recognize  a  power  not  yet  de- 
fined, but  distinctly  felt  by  some  of  the  ablest  of 
them.  This  question  has  presented  itself  to  me 
many  times  in  the  last  few  years:  What  is  the 
power  behind  ignorant  men  who  find  dignity  and 
comfort  in  religion.''  Last  summer,  when  in  Rome, 
I  was  much  interested  in  observing  the  behavior 
of  the  Romish  clergy,  not  the  men  high  in  power 
and  steeped  in  diplomacy  and  intrigue,  but  the 
working  men  of  the  church — the  parish  priests  who 
went  about  among  the  people  as  spiritual  helpers 
and  almoners.  I  talked  with  many  of  these  men, 
and  found  them  to  be  ignorant,  unambitious,  and 
superstitious ;  and  yet  there  was  a  power  behind 
them  which  must  mystify  philosophers.  What  is 
this  power?  I  cannot  undertake  to  say.  But  it  is 
there,  and  it  may  be  that  those  persons  who  deny 
the  essential  truths  of  revealed  religion  are  all 
wrong.  At  any  rate,  I,  for  one,  do  not  care  to  go 
on  denying  the  existence  of  such  a  force. 

"To  my  old  friends  and  followers,  who  may  feel 
grieved  at  such  an  admission  on  my  part,  I  would 
say  that  I  am  no  more  a  believer  in  revealed  re- 
ligion today  than  I  was  ten  years  ago.  But,  as  I 
said  before,  I  have  doubts  which  1  had  not  then. 
The  creeds  of  today  do  not  seem  in  my  eyes  to  be  so 
wholly  groundless  as  they  were  then,  and,  while  I 
believe  that  the  next  hundred  years  will  see  great 
changes  in  them,  I  do  not  think  that  they  are  des- 
tined to  disappear.     To  sum  up  the  whole  matter, 


BOOKS  31 

the  work  which  I  have  been  doing  appears  to  lead 
to  nothing,  and  may  have  been  grounded  upon  mis- 
taken premises.  Therefore  it  is  better  to  stop. 
But  I  do  not  want  to  give  the  impression  that  I  re- 
cant anything.  I  simply  stop  denying,  and  wait 
for  more  light." 


There  died  in  1902,  in  the  ninety-second  year 
of  his  age,  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  few 
public  men  it  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  know. 
Frederick  Saunders  was  at  one  time  city  editor  of 
the  New  York  Evening  .Post,  and,  later,  the  suc- 
cessor of  Dr.  Cogswell  in  the  librarianship  of  the 
Astor  Library.  The  latter  position  he  secured 
through  Washington  Irving,  who  was  his  father's 
friend,  and  it  was  held  with  honor  to  himself  and 
advantage  to  the  institution  until  1893,  when  the 
increasing  infirmities  of  age  compelled  him  to 
retire. 

Mr.  Saunders  was  born  in  London,  and  came 
to  the  United  States  early  in  life  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  his  father's  publishing  house  (Saun- 
ders and  Otley),  and  as  an  advocate  of  interna- 
tional copyright  law.  He  did  not  live  to  see  the 
enactment  of  the  law,  but  he  did  much  to  create  a 
favorable  public  sentiment,  and  those  who  know 
the  history  of  that  long  and,  at  times,  bitter  con- 
flict are  agreed  in  pronouncing  him  the  true  ini- 
tiator of  the  International  Copyright  Law,  the 
justice  of  which  is  now  so  generally  recognized. 
Through  his  father,  who  was  an  influential  pub- 


S2      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Usher  in  earlier  days  before  literature  had  suffered 
the  commercialization  which  is  now  its  pitiable 
disgrace,  he  had  the  privilege  of  knowing  and  of 
counting  among  his  friends  such  men  and  women 
as  Robert  Southey,  Harriet  Martineau,  Dr. 
Chalmers,  Thomas  Carlyle,  William  Cullen  Bry- 
ant, George  Bancroft,  Thomas  Moore,  Henry 
Hallam,  Thomas  Campbell,  Maria  Edge  worth, 
and  Samuel  Rogers. 

Mr.  Saunders  was  himself  a  man  of  letters.  He 
wrote,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover,  fif- 
teen books,  the  most  popular  among  which  were 
"Salad  for  the  Solitary"  and  "Salad  for  the  So- 
cial." His  "Evenings  with  the  Sacred  Poets" 
passed  through  several  editions,  and  was  finally 
revised  and  enlarged.  From  its  sale  he  derived  a 
considerable  profit. 

Mr.  Saunders  was  a  literary  recluse.  He  de- 
lighted in  books,  and  was  never  happy  when  far 
removed  from  his  library.  In  no  sense  of  the  word 
was  he  a  man  of  the  world.  He  lacked  the  fine 
manners  and  charm  of  presence  many  of  his 
friends  less  gifted  than  himself  possessed.  He 
knew  his  social  and  personal  limitations,  and  it 
was  his  consciousness  of  these  that  made  him  the 
shy  and  awkward  man  he  was.  Yet  in  the  com- 
pany of  those  whose  tastes  and  inclinations  were 
like  his  own,  he  was  frank,  self-possessed,  and  joy- 
ous. He  was  a  man  who  thought  no  guile.  His 
spirit  was  deeply  religious.  The  unbelief  of  his 
day,  which  found  some  eloquent  expression  in  the 


BOOKS  33 

books  and  conversations  of  many  gifted  sons  and 
daughters  of  genius  with  whom  he  was  well  ac- 
quainted, made  no  impression  upon  his  deeply 
religious  nature.  He  was  fond  of  devotional 
books,  though  I  do  not  know  that  any  of  his  own 
works  would  have  answered  to  that  description. 
For  works  of  a  controversial  nature  he  had  no  lik- 
ing. His  religion  was  personal  and  contemplative 
rather  than  ecclesiastical  and  dogmatic.  His 
mind  was  of  an  antique  cast,  and  he  lived  largely 
in  the  past,  concerning  himself  with  old  books,  his- 
torical associations,  and  archaeological  investiga- 
tions. As  a  companion  he  was  in  every  way  de- 
lightful. He  had  a  large  fund  of  rare  and  valu- 
able information  of  a  bookish  kind,  and  in  the  so- 
ciety of  literary  friends  he  was  never  reticent  or 
taciturn. 

His  books  were  not  marked  by  originality,  and 
yet  they  were  in  no  sense  of  the  word  compilations. 
Into  them  went  the  varied  wisdom  of  one  long 
familiar  with  the  literary  landscape,  and  whose 
wont  it  was  to  wander  at  will  through  wooded 
vales  and  flower-encircled  fields  of  learning.  From 
his  literary  excursions  he  often  returned  laden 
with  the  choicest  flowers.  His  books  are  read  now 
only  by  a  select  few  who  delight  to  stroll  through 
quaint  and  unfrequented  ways,  and  are  satisfied 
with  the  old  beauty  in  which  their  fathers  de- 
lighted and  which  the  world  can  never  wholly 
outgrow. 

Some  good  writers  have  received  little  honor  in 


34      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

their  day  and  generation,  and  some  authors  of  no 
merit  whatever  have,  for  one  reason  or  another, 
found  wilHng  publishers  and  have  received  wide 
and  even  enduring  praise.  Circumstances  over 
which  no  one  may  have  any  great  control,  and 
mere  accidents,  and  the  whims  and  caprices  of  or- 
dinary men  not  infrequently  settle  the  entire 
question  of  literary  recognition.  The  opinion  of 
the  President  of  the  United  States  with  regard  to 
the  value  of  a  book  may  be,  from  a  literary  point 
of  view,  of  no  great  importance;  but  neverthless 
it  remains  true  that  if  an  author  can  get  that  dis- 
tinguished gentleman  to  say  his  work  is  in  some 
way  remarkable,  its  fortune  is  made.  The  un- 
measured castigation  of  the  religious  press  and  of 
the  pulpit  will  accomplish  the  same  result,  for  the 
value  of  the  advertisement  is  in  neither  praise 
nor  censure,  but  in  the  successful  calling  of  the 
attention  to  the  wares  to  be  marketed  in  such  a 
way  as  to  pique  curiosity  or  awaken  interest. 
Years  ago  the  famous  anti-religious  writer,  Fran- 
ces Wright,  publicly  thanked  the  clergymen  of 
America,  of  all  denominations,  for  their  persist- 
ent denunciation  of  her  and  her  teachings.  She 
told  them  she  owed  much  of  her  popularity  to 
their  "misrepresentations,"  and  she  politely  re- 
quested them  to  continue  their  "gratuitous  adver- 
tising" of  her  lectures.  Robert  G.  Ingersoll  at- 
tributed his  success  as  a  speaker  to  the  religious 
press,  though,  in  truth,  I  think  his  splendid  ora- 
tory was  responsible  for  the  large  audiences  that 


BOOKS  35 

gathered  to  hear  him  attack  a  religion  that  has 
withstood  and  will  continue  to  withstand  greater 
assaults  than  he  was  ever  capable  of  making. 
More  than  one  book  has  been  suppressed  into  a 
Twentieth  Edition.  Literature  has  in  these  ma- 
terialistic days  become  so  commercialized  that  real 
worth  not  infrequently  stands  in  the  way  of  suc- 
cess. It  is  humiliating  but  true  that  publishers 
are  not  looking  for  good  literature,  but  for  "the 
best  sellers."  An  American  publisher  said  to  the 
writer  of  this  paper,  "I  am  in  business  for 
money.  I  think  my  judgment  of  books  quite  as 
good  as  that  of  my  neighbors,  but  I  also  think  I 
know  what  will  sell."  To  be  born  in  advance  of 
one's  age  is  a  commercial  calamity.  It  means  for 
an  author  who  is  dependent  upon  his  pen  poverty 
and  neglect.  The  commonplaces  of  life  are  safe, 
and  only  men  of  exceptional  ability  do  well  in 
leaving  the  beaten  track.  Blazing  a  trail  may  be 
interesting,  but  the  wheels  of  civilization  roll 
complacently  over  macadamized  roads  or  spin  with 
lightning  speed  along  tracks  of  steel.  One  has 
only  to  examine  a  book  like  Stedman's  "Library 
of  American  Literature"  to  see  how  large  is  the 
company  of  those  who  aspire  to  fame  in  the  world 
of  letters,  and  yet,  though  writing  well,  die  un- 
discovered. The  writer  of  this  paper  is  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Author's  Club,  an  organization  that 
holds  its  meetings  during  the  winter  months  in 
the  Carnegie  Building,  New  York  City.  There 
with  good  cheer  and  kindly  fellowship  gather  the 


36       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

men  who  make  our  books  and  papers,  and  whose 
names  are  the  common  property  of  the  world. 
The  club  is  not  large,  but  among  its  members  are 
some  whose  reputations  are  assured  and  whose 
books  will  be  remembered  and  republished  when 
they  themselves  are  dust.  And  yet  how  many  of 
that  kindly  and  brilliant  company  are  destined  to 
be  forgotten!  How  many  are  today  little  known 
to  the  reading  world.  Every  large  library  is  a 
literary  mausoleum  where  slumber  in  dust  and 
neglect  the  dead  books  of  deceased  authors. 
Eight-tenths  of  all  the  popular  novels  published 
in  these  times  will  be  forgotten  in  another  five 
years.  A  man  once  asked  the  writer  what  became 
of  all  the  dead  birds.  There  are  millions  of  feath- 
ered songsters  in  our  tree-tops,  and  they  are  con- 
stantly^ dying,  but  who  ever  sees  a  dead  bird  by 
the  roadside  or  on  the  lawn.?  The  yellow-covered 
novels,  and  novels  of  every  other  color,  are  dying 
as  fast  as  they  are  hatched  by  the  publishing  fra- 
ternity. What  becomes  of  them  all?  A  day  or 
two  ago  I  discovered  their  fate — an  enormous 
wagon  trundled  by  my  door,  loaded  down  with 
books  of  every  description,  on  their  way  to  the 
paper-mill.  I  have  had  personal  acquaintance 
with  many  writers  whose  books  were  good  and 
whose  names  are  unknown.  They  lived  and  died, 
and  the  world  remembers  them  no  more. 

Yet  he  Is  happy  whose  life  is  surrounded  with 
the  charm  of  good  literature.  Even  the  unsuc- 
cessful author  has  his  consolation  in  the  rare  fel- 


BOOKS  37 

lowship  of  gifted  souls.  Why  should  the  scholar 
fret  himself  with  the  dull  folly  of  idle  fashions, 
the  vulgar  ambition  of  place  and  power,  and  the 
rude  scramble  for  wealth  that  brings  not  with  it 
one  day  more  of  inward  gladness?  Rich  in  noble 
reward  is  the  philosophic  and  gentle  life  of  high 
and  serene  converse  with  the  storied  past  and  the 
unspoken  wonder  and  beauty  of  the  great  world 
of  human  achievement. 


?3G10 


n 

AN  OLD-TIME  BIBLIOPHILE 


"There  are  different  kinds  of  dust.  One  can 
well  believe  the  dust  that  was  not  long  ago  a  lovely 
rose  retains  something  of  its  early  fragrance.  To 
the  bibliophile  and  literary  epicure  there  is  a  cer- 
tain indescribable  charm  in  the  dust  that  old  books 
gather  to  themselves  on  their  silent  shelves.  Cob- 
webs embellish  the  necks  of  aged  wine-bottles,  and 
render  more  attractive  the  sparkling  juices  they 
imprison,  and  that  once  blushed  in  the  purple  clus- 
ters. So  in  the  dust  of  the  well-filled  library  there 
is  a  delight  our  prosaic  house- wife  cannot  under- 
stand."—   Archceologia," 

"Can  nothing  that 
Is  new  affect  your  mouldy  appetite.^" 

—"The  Witts." 


AN  OLD-TIME  BIBLIOPHILE 

*'nn  HE    Rev,  Isaac  Gosset,  D.D.,    F.  R.  S." 

J-  — thus  it  is  that  Kirby  announces  Dr. 
Gossett  in  his  "Wonderful  Museum,"  where  we 
have  the  learned  gentleman's  picture  maliciously 
done  by  a  scamp  of  a  print-seller,  who  has  im- 
mortalized the  Doctor's  cocked  hat  and  stunted 
figure.  Dr.  Gosset  was  born  in  Berwick  Street, 
London,  in  1744,  and  had  his  early  education  at 
Dr.  Walker's,  at  Mile-end,  where  he  learned 
something  of  Latin,  Greek,  Hebrew,  and  Arabic, 
and  gave  promise  of  becoming  a  distinguished 
scholar.  Dr.  Walker  was  a  dried-up  specimen  of 
humanity  who  loved  books  much  more  than  he 
loved  boys,  though  it  is  on  record  that  he  was 
kind,  after  the  fashion  of  his  time,  to  most  of  the 
youngsters  who  were  intrusted  to  his  care.  He 
was  more  than  kind  to  young  Isaac  because  he 
discovered,  with  the  natural  instinct  which  he 
had  for  everything  resembling  book -lore,  that  the 
lad  was  fond  of  the  classics  and  literature.  That 
fondness  for  books  was  a  strong  tie  binding  to- 
gether the  dessicated  heart  of  old  Dr.  Walker  and 
the  eager,  enquiring  mind  of  the  youth. 

The  school-master  of  a  century  ago  was  gener- 
ally a  man  of  one  idea  and  not  infrequently  he 
had  not  that  much  intellectual  capital,  all  his 
stock  in  trade  being  rigid  discipline  in  the  shape 
of  a  birch  rod.  Dr.  Walker  was  not  in  every  way 
41 


42       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

a  typical  old-time  pedagogue.  Uninteresting  and 
wanting  in  good-fellowship  as  he  must  have 
seemed  to  the  ordinary  men  and  women  of  his 
day,  and  severe  and  exacting  as  he  certainly  was 
at  times  in  his  relations  with  the  young  men  who 
were  his  pupils,  he  had  still  a  very  warm  heart, 
and  liked  nothing  better  than  to  see  what  he  re- 
garded as  the  graceful  and  noble  development  of 
a  promising  intellect.  When  given  the  care  and 
training  of  such  an  intellect  he  was  the  embodi- 
ment of  enthusiasm,  and  no  personal  sacrifice  was 
too  great  for  him  to  make  in  directing  the  ener- 
gies and  moulding  the  opinions  of  a  favorite 
pupil.  It  is  said  that  upon  one  occasion,  when  a 
little  boy,  whose  years  were  so  tender  that  noth- 
ing of  the  kind  could  have  been  expected  of  him, 
translated  a  page  of  Livy  with  something  more 
than  mere  correctness  of  rendering  and  gave  evi- 
dence of  real  delight  in  the  Latin  author.  Dr. 
Walker  rose  from  his  chair  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
and,  embracing  the  lad  in  the  presence  of  his 
class-fellows,  kissed  him  upon  both  cheeks.  Per- 
haps there  was  nothing  markedly  original  about 
Dr.  Walker,  but  neither  was  there  anything  rude 
or  vulgar  in  his  nature,  and  his  work  was  not 
wholly  commonplace.  He  deserved  well  of  the 
age  in  which  he  flourished,  and  certainly  he  is  en- 
titled to  the  kindly  remembrance  of  the  genera- 
tions that  follow  him  and  are  better  for  his  hav- 
ing lived. 

From  Dr.  Walker's  care  young  Isaac  Gosset 


AN  OLD-TIME  BIBLIOPHILE  43 

went  to  Dr.  Kennicote's  school,  where  he  remained 
for  some  time.  Later  he  sat  at  the  feet  of  Mr. 
Hinton,  who  had  a  national  reputation  for  sound 
learning  and  a  large  experience  in  the  training  of 
youthful  minds.  He  received  his  Master  of  Arts 
from  Oxford,  and  it  was  the  same  venerable  in- 
stitution that  put  the  finishing  touch  to  his  dig- 
nity in  the  shape  of  a  Doctor  of  Divinity's  hood, 
which  I  take  it  was  more  ornamental  than  the 
cocked  hat  which  he  wears  in  the  malicious  picture 
to  which  reference  has  been  made. 

Dr.  Gosset  preached  at  Conduit  Chapel,  where 
a  cultivated  congregation  listened  to  his  sermons, 
which  were  always  well  written  and  correctly  de- 
livered but  which,  like  most  of  the  sermons  of  that 
day  and  no  small  number  of  this  as  well,  were  wo- 
fully  wanting  in  earnestness  and  spiritual  enthu- 
siasm. His  preaching  was  a  literary  perform- 
ance and  awakened  only  an  intellectual  response. 
Preaching,  unless  constantly  revitalized  by  that 
inner  communion  with  God  which  is  of  the  very 
essence  of  all  true  religion,  becomes  either  coldly 
intellectual  or  cheerless  and  perfunctory.  The 
machinery  of  worship  has  a  direct  and  continuous 
tendency  to  destroy  those  spiritual  elements 
which  give  to  public  religious  services  their  pe- 
culiar significance  and  value.  There  is  some- 
thing benumbing  and  stupefying  in  the  too  fre- 
quent repetition  of  the  same  prayer,  even  though 
the  praj'^er  be  one  of  exceptional  beaut}-  and  pe- 
culiar fitness  to  voice  the  hopes    and    desires    of 


44      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

the  human  soul.  Liturgical  services  sooner  or 
later  degenerate  into  empty  parade  and  lifeless 
form.  Dr.  Gosset's  lack  of  pulpit  power  was 
due,  however,  not  so  much  to  the  deadening  in- 
fluence of  ritualism  as  to  the  unspiritual  tendency 
of  a  pure  intellectualism  that  appealed  to  the  head 
only  and  left  the  heart  untouched.  And  yet  there 
must  have  been  something  in  his  discourses  that 
addressed  itself,  if  not  to  piety,  at  least  to  the 
sentimental  side  of  human  nature,  for  there  sat  in 
one  of  the  pews  directly  in  front  of  the  pulpit  a 
young  and  beautiful  lady  of  cultivated  mind  and 
aristocratic  associations,  who,  as  she  listened  to 
the  preacher,  fell  deeply  in  love  with  him  and 
aspired  to  become  his  wife.  Miss  Hill,  for  that 
was  her  name,  was  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  tim- 
ber merchant  and  had  considerable  money  in  her 
own  right.  It  could  not  have  been,  it  seems  to  me, 
solely  the  person  of  Dr.  Gosset  that  won  the 
young  lady's  heart,  for  he  was  ill-favored,  being 
a  grotesque  and  at  the  same  time  vain-glorious 
dwarf.  I  suppose  there  must  be  in  all  this  world 
a  considerable  number  of  men  and  women  of  dim- 
inutive stature  who  are  still  of  a  modest  and  retir- 
ing turn  of  mind,  but  so  far  as  my  own  personal 
experience  extends,  the  most  self-satisfied  and 
boastful  specimens  of  humanity  are  of  Liliputian 
build.  Gosset  was  not  only  a  dwarf,  but  he  was 
an  absurd  dwarf,  and  nothing  but  his  mental 
power  and  literary  ability  saved  him  from  becom- 
ing the  laughing-stock  of  his  fellow  men.     When 


AN  OLD-TIME  BIBLIOPHILE         45 

in  the  pulpit,  in  order  to  see  his  congregation,  he 
was  compelled  to  stand  upon  two  hassocks ;  and 
it  is  related  that  upon  one  occasion,  being  some- 
what warmed  up  in  his  discourse,  he  slipped  from 
the  hassocks  and  for  several  minutes  was  invisible, 
though  the  sermon  went  on  without  interruption. 

Dr.  Gosset's  wife  brought  him  a  fortune  of 
£6,000,  and  it  was  no  longer  necessary  that  he 
should  preach  in  order  to  live.  He  did  the  only 
thing  proper  for  a  man  of  his  unspiritual  nature 
to  do  under  the  circumstances — he  left  the  pulpit 
and  became  a  collector  of  books.  It  is  only  as  a 
collector  of  rare  and  costly  books  that  the  world 
now  remembers  the  man  who  once  drew  one  of  the 
most  cultivated  of  London  congregations.  Dr. 
Gosset  was  a  good  husband  and  father,  but  his 
wife  had  abundant  reason  to  be  jealous  of  his 
library.  He  lived  with  his  books.  Entire  days 
were  spent  in  their  society,  and  he  was  even 
known  to  address  certain  volumes  in  the  most  ten- 
der and  affectionate  terms,  assuring  them  of  his 
warmest  appreciation  and  of  his  determination 
never  to  part  from  them. 

As  early  as  1781  Dr.  Gosset  was  to  be  seen  at 
the  great  book-sales.  Everybody  knew  him  at 
Patterson's,  Leigh  and  Southeby's,  and  most  of 
the  other  halls  in  London  where  books  were  sold. 
He  gave  large  sums  for  choice  editions  of  his  fa- 
vorite authors.  It  is  not  necessary  to  name  the 
works  Dr.  Gosset  purchased.  Were  he  living  to- 
day it  is  more  than  likely  he  would  make  a  very 


46      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

different  selection.  He  was  fond  of  theological 
books,  which  is  not  strange  when  one  considers 
the  temper  of  the  age  and  the  peculiar  training 
he  had  received.  Theology  is  now  at  a  sad  dis- 
count, and  were  the  amiable  Doctor  now  living  in 
these  times  and  in  the  city  of  Albany,  he  might 
have,  I  am  quite  sure,  for  a  sum  so  small  that  I 
will  not  belittle  the  books  by  naming  it,  all  the 
works  on  theology  in  "Ye  Olde  Booke  Man's" 
shop.  I  should  not  like  to  tempt  "Ye  Olde  Booke 
Man"  with  the  shekels  had  I  no  cart  at  his  door 
ready  to  receive  the  goods.  And,  In  truth,  I  do 
not  see  how  I  could  be  induced  to  either  risk  the 
shekels  or  pay  for  the  cart.  Ponderous  tomes  on 
Election,  Reprobation,  Decrees,  and  kindred 
themes  have  lost  their  charm.  Perhaps  we  are, 
all  of  us,  worse  for  the  change  that  has  come 
over  the  public  mind  and  eclipsed  the  glory  of  pul- 
pit literature.  I  will  not  dispute  with  my  reader 
if  he  believes  that  the  dawn  upon  our  horizon  of  a 
mighty  revival  of  Baxter,  Taylor,  Cudworth,  and 
Edwards  would  Improve  our  morals  and  deepen 
our  spiritual  life.  It  may  be  that  that  is  precisely 
the  kind  of  a  revival  we  need,  but  certain  I  am  that 
it  is  precisely  the  kind  of  a  revival  we  shall  none 
of  us  ever  see.  Even  dear  old  Dr.  Hodge,  whose 
sweet  and  gracious  memory  will  haunt  for  many 
a  year  the  classic  shades  of  Princeton,  Is  struck 
with  death,  and  the  dust  already  lies  heavy  and 
undisturbed  upon  the  faded  covers  of  his  "Syste- 
matic Theology."  Shedd's  "Dogmatic  Theology" 


AN  OLD-TIME  BIBLIOPHILE        47 

will  soon  go  the  lonely  way  of  all  dogmatic  things. 
Muller's  "Christian  Doctrine  of  Sin"  is  passing 
hand  in  hand  with  Dorner's  "System  of  Christian 
Doctrine"  to  the  peaceful  shades  of  sacred  obliv- 
ion. Before  our  careless  vision  they  slip  into  the 
dark,  and  will  be  soon  forgotten.  Am  I  glad  of 
all  this.''  Now,  my  inquisitive  reader,  why  do  you 
ask  that  question?  I  am  neither  glad  nor  sad. 
I  only  state  things  as  they  are ;  and  all  the  while 
I  quietly  cherish  in  the  secret  recesses  of  my  in- 
nermost heart  the  comforting  belief  that  as  God 
lived  before  Baxter  was  born,  so  He  will  continue 
to  live  when  Shedd  and  Dorncr  are  no  more.  Did 
you  remark  that  they  do  not  think  precisely  that 
way  at  Princeton  and  venerable  New  Brunswick.'' 
Well,  perhaps  not ;  yet  there  are  those  who  cherish 
even  now  the  pleasing  fancy  that  approaching 
day-dawn  makes  less  dun  the  sedges  of  Newark 
Bay  and  the  marshes  of  picturesque  Hoboken.  It 
is  a  flying  popular  report  (not  yet  a  promulgation 
from  the  house-top)  that  not  a  few  wise  men  may 
be  found  in  the  halls  of  sacred  learning  already 
named  who  firmly  believe  that  God  is  greater  than 
their  fathers  thought,  and  that  His  love  is  larger 
than  their  little  systems  of  theology  have  made 
that  love  appear.  Strange  rumor ! — yet  "import- 
ant if  true." 

Dr.  Gosset,  queer  old  soul !  loved  theology,  but 
he  was  also  fond  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  classics, 
and  translated  Epictetus.  Toward  the  end  of  his 
life  he  became  so  antique  in  mental  structure  that 


48       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

he  was  more  at  home  In  the  Greece  of  two  thousand 
years  ago  than  in  the  merry  England  of  his  own 
time.  He  was  a  scholar,  and  yet  he  was  not  for 
that  reason  unsocial.  He  took  delight  in  conver- 
sation, went  to  the  theatre,  rode  in  a  fine  chariot, 
and  had  a  beautiful  home. 

At  last  the  end  came.  He  died  suddenly,  De- 
cember 16th,  1812,  leaving  behind  him  two  sons, 
one  daughter,  and  more  than  four  thousand 
books.  His  life  as  a  literary  collector  had  not 
impoverished  him,  for  he  made  all  his  children 
rich.  His  sons  had,  each  of  them,  £50,000,  and 
his  daughter  had  £20,000.  To  these  sums  must 
be  added  the  financial  results  arising  from  the  sale 
of  his  library.  These  were  large  for  that  day, 
notwithstanding  the  ecclesiastical  and  theological 
shadows  that  hung  like  damp  veils  of  mist  over 
the  entire  collection.  It  was  thought  by  those 
who  had  given  the  matter  consideration  that  the 
Doctor  would  leave  all  his  sacred  treasures  to  some 
university,  and  it  was  hinted  that  Oxford,  having 
dignified  him  with  a  Doctor  of  Divinity's  hood, 
expected  to  receive  in  return  his  valuable  collec- 
tion of  books.  But  Dr.  Gosset  was  too  wise  a 
man  to  hide  his  costly  library  in  the  receiving 
tomb  of  a  learned  institution.  In  his  will  he  gave 
his  beloved  books  a  fatherly  blessing  and  bade 
them  journey  to  every  corner  of  England,  mak- 
ing for  themselves  new  homes  and  new  friends 
by  humble  firesides  as  well  as  in  stately  museums. 

Not  long  ago  there  died  a  man  of  most  beauti- 


AN  OLD-TIME  BIBLIOPHILE        49 

ful  spirit  and  of  exquisite  taste,  who  thought,  in 
the  matter  of  the  disposal  of  a  library  after  its 
collector's  death,  as  old  Gosset  thought  not  far 
from  a  century  ago.  "Read,  mark,  learn,  and  in- 
wardly digest"  (forgive,  I  pray  you,  good  reader, 
the  slightly  theological  cast  of  the  sentence)  this 
extract  from  the  will  of  Edmond  de  Goncourt, 
which  even  in  an  English  translation  no  bookman 
can  contemplate  without  emotion: 

"My  wish  is  that  my  Drawings,  my  Prints,  my 
Curiosities,  my  Books — in  a  word,  these  things  of 
art  which  have  been  the  joy  of  my  life — shall  not 
be  consigned  to  the  cold  tomb  of  a  museum,  and 
subjected  to  the  stupid  glance  of  the  careless 
passer-by;  but  I  require  that  they  shall  all  be  dis- 
persed under  the  hammer  of  the  Auctioneer,  so  that 
the  pleasure  which  the  acquiring  of  each  one  of 
them  has  given  me  shall  be  given  again,  in  each 
case,  to  some  inheritor  of  my  own  tastes." 

There  is  another  reason,  and  it  is  a  good  one, 
so  it  seems  to  me,  why  after  the  death  of  a  collec- 
tor an  auctioneer  should  make  the  acquaintance 
of  his  library.  Colleges  and  museums  are  now  the 
recipients  of  so  many  gifts  that  often  they  have 
upon  their  shelves  three  or  four  copies  of  the  same 
book.  Shelf  room  must  be  economized.  The  du- 
plicates are  sold.  I  purchased  not  long  ago  a 
volume  that  had  been  in  the  library  of  Yale  Uni- 
versity and  that  contained  the  university  book- 
plate, beneath  which  was  plainly  stated  the  fact 
that  the  said  book  had  come  to  the  institution 
from  the  "Bequest  of  Jonathan  Edwards,  M.D., 


50       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

in  1887."  The  book  is  before  me  as  I  write,  and 
furnishes  one  more  argument  against  sending  a 
valuable  library  to  the  classic  halls  of  a  modern 
college. 

After  Dr.  Gosset's  death  kind  and  appreciative 
notices  of  his  life  and  character  appeared.  There 
was  published  also  a  poem  of  some  length,  and 
well  worth  reading.  Few  now  remember  that  Gos- 
set  once  lived  in  the  heart  of  England  and  there 
collected  rare  and  costly  books ;  yet  not  long  ago 
a  gentleman  told  me  it  was  his  opinion  that  old 
Gosset,  remembered,  if  remembered  at  all,  by  his 
cocked  hat  and  deformed  figure,  was  the  father 
of  our  modern  book  collectors. 

Four  years  after  the  sale  of  Gosset's  library, 
William  Roscoe,  a  man  of  great  learning  and 
beautiful  spirit,  whose  books  ''The  Pontificate  of 
Leo  X."  and  "The  Life  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici" 
will  long  remain  standard  in  English  literature, 
met  with  reverses  in  business,  and  was  compelled 
to  dispose  of  his  library.  Gosset  and  Roscoe  must 
have  known  each  other,  though,  in  truth,  I  doubt 
if  there  was  much  in  common  between  them  save 
the  love  of  letters.  When  Roscoe  had  seen  the 
last  book  pass  from  his  fond  possession,  he  sat 
down  in  his  dismantled  room,  before  his  empty 
shelves,  and  penned  this  lovely  sonnet: 

"As  one  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Regrets  his  loss,  yet  hopes  again,  erewhile, 
To  share  their  converse  and  enjoy  their  smile. 
And  tempers,  as  he  may,  affliction's  dart, — 


AN  OLD-TIME  BIBLIOPHILE         61 

Thus,  loved  associates!  chiefs  of  elder  Art! 
Teachers  of  wisdom !  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 
I  now  resign  you — nor  with  fainting  heart. 
For,  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hourSj 
And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold. 
And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore; 
When,  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers. 
Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold. 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more." 

Roscoe  rests  in  the  burying  ground  connected 
with  the  Unitarian  church  in  Renshaw  Street, 
Liverpool.  Nearby,  in  the  same  ground,  is  the 
grave  of  Joseph  Blanco  White.  The  church  con- 
tains a  beautiful  bust  of  Roscoe,  and  upon  the 
walls  are  elaborate  memorials  of  various  members 
of  his  family.  I  do  not  know  where  Gosset  lies 
at  rest,  but  doubtless  some  day  the  book-lovers  of 
England  and  America  will  rear  over  his  dust  a 
memorial  shaft  of  snowy  marble  to  bear  his  hon- 
ored name  and  record  their  affectionate  regard. 

Dear  old  Dr.  Gosset,  we  love  you  none  the  less 
for  the  few  faults  that  only  make  you  seem  more 
human.  In  a  commercial  age  we  treasure  in  our 
hearts  your  delight  in  noble  and  gracious  books. 
Be  pleased,  we  pray  you,  to  gaze  with  kindly  vis- 
ion from  the  empyrean  where  you  dwell,  and  add 
your  blessing  to  the  gladness  of  our  hearts  as  we 
gather  round  us  those  sweet  and  wondrous  souls 
that  were  your  joy  and  are  our  delight. 


Ill 

LITERARY  FAME 


"  *T  is  a  fine  thing  that  one  weak  as  myself 
Should  sit  in  his  lone  room,  knowing  the  words 
He  utters  in  his  solitude  shall  move 
Men  like  a  swift  wind — that  tho'  dead  and  gone, 
New  eyes  shall  glisten  when  his  beauteous  dreams 
Of  love  come  true  in  happier  frames  than  his." 

— Robert  Browning. 

"I  shall  dine  late;  but  the  dining-room  will  be 
well  lighted,  the  guests  few  and  select." 


LITERARY  FAME 

THE  honors  and  pleasures  of  this  world,  and 
it  may  be  of  other  worlds  as  well  if  such  ex- 
ist, are  for  the  men  and  women  who  have  cour- 
age to  take  them.  Strong,  self-reliant  souls 
spend  no  time  in  foolish  regret,  but  reach  out  in 
every  direction  and  appropriate  to  their  own  use 
whatever  is  fitted  for  their  service.  Audacity  wins 
by  divine  right  of  conquest.  Think  meanly  of 
yourself,  and  the  world  will  take  you  at  your  own 
estimate.  No  man  need  go  down  into  an  entirely 
obscure  grave  if  he  have  but  the  wit  and  courage 
to  keep  out  of  it.  Much  less  is  there  any  com- 
pulsion or  limitation,  divine  or  human,  that  places 
noble  living  beyond  the  reach  of  any  earnest  soul. 
Yet  it  is  not  in  audacity  alone  that  the  victory 
over  oblivion  is  won ;  there  must  be  something  in 
the  man  to  justify  the  audacity.  Or  if  there  be 
in  him  nothing  of  the  kind,  there  must  be  at  least 
some  rare  circumstance  to  preserve  the  soul  in 
amber.  But,  one  way  or  another,  the  timid  al- 
ways bid  for  inglorious  obscurity.  Gods  and  men 
delight  in  the  hero.  If  they  do  not  herald  his  ad- 
vent, they  are  never  weary  of  celebrating  his 
vices  and  virtues  when  once  he  has  lived  his  life 
and  made  an  end  of  it.  His  mouldering  bones 
have  in  death  this  strange  power,  that  they  can 
change  a  mound  of  dust  and  sod  into  a  sacred 
shrine.     Only  a  man  must  think  well  of  himself 

55 


56      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

unless  he  have  extraordinary  genius.  Genius  of 
high  order  concerns  itself  little  about  laws  and 
regulations  that  help  the  wingless  to  rise.  Men 
of  moderate  ability  find  in  all  kinds  of  conform- 
ity both  safety  and  advancement.  The  great 
genius  trusts  his  own  strength.  Homer  and 
Shakspeare  concern  themselves  about  many 
things  that  scarcely  enter  our  intellectual  world, 
but  all  our  rules  and  regulations  are  to  them  as 
the  green  withes  Delilah  bound  about  the  strong 
limbs  of  the  giant  Samson.  They  can  even  afford 
to  think  lightly  of  themselves,  for  their  strength 
is  great,  and  their  proportions  are  revealed  to  all 
by  the  vastness  of  their  shadows.  Very  different 
is  it  with  men  of  ordinary  ability.  They  must  be- 
lieve in  themselves,  and  that  belief  must  find  ade- 
quate expression.  Shakspeare,  it  would  seem, 
had  no  care  for  his  plays.  He  never  revised  them, 
nor  did  he  make  any  effort  to  preserve  them.  They 
were  saved  from  destruction  by  other  hands  than 
his.  With  a  moderate  competence  he  settled  him- 
self in  Stratford-upon-Avon,  and  thought  no 
more  of  what  he  had  written.  There  is  a  certain 
unconsciousness  about  every  immortal  work.  In 
"Macbeth"  we  are  told  that 

**  Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage 
And  then  is  heard  no  more;  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and   fury. 
Signifying  nothing." 

The  little  men  who  thus  think    and    feel  find 


LITERARY  FAME  57 

every  line  descriptive  of  the  life  they  know  and 
call  their  own.  They  give  rein  to  the  trivial  ele- 
ments in  themselves,  "strut  and  fret"  a  brief 
season,  and  are  then  decently  interred  beneath 
their  own  insignificance.  Few  are  like  the  mas- 
ters of  thought  and  the  leaders  of  great  enter- 
prises who  are  too  vast  for  oblivion.  And  still 
the  colossal  men  err  on  the  safe  side.  Dante 
makes  himself  the  friend  and  companion  of  Vir- 
gil. He  claims  a  place  with  great  poets.  He 
praises  his  old  schoolmaster  for  this,  that  he 
"taught  him  how  men  eternize  themselves."  Was 
it  vanity  that  led  Napoleon  to  say  in  an  un- 
guarded moment,  "God  created  Napoleon  and 
rested"?  When  they  asked  Cicero  of  his  lineage, 
he  responded,  "I  commenced  an  ancestry."  "It 
becomes  all  men,"  wrote  Sallust,  "who  desire  to 
excel  other  animals,  to  strive  to  the  utmost  of 
their  power  not  to  pass  through  life  in  obscurity, 
like  the  beasts  of  the  field,  which  Nature  has  made 
grovelling  and  subservient  to  appetite."  Horace 
made  no  mistake  when  he  closed  the  third  book  of 
his  Odes  with  these  deathless  lines : 

"I  have  reared  a  monument 
More  enduring  than  bronze. 
And  loftier  than  the  regal  pyramids, 
Which  neither  wasting  raindrops. 
Nor   the    wild    north-wind    shall    destroy. 
I  shall  not  wholly  die — 

I  shall  live  in  the  remembrance  of  posterity. 
So  long  as  the  pontiff  shall  ascend  the  Capitol 
With  the  silent  and  sacred  virgin." 


58      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Virgil  felt  the  same  craving  for  remembrance 
when  he  wrote  in  his  third  Georgic,  referring  to 
the  achievements  of  others,  these  striking  words: 
"I,  too,  must  attempt  a  way  whereby  to  lift  me 
from  the  ground  and  to  spread,  victorious,  my 
fame  through  the  mouths  of  men."  The  gifted 
Fielding,  whose  "Tom  Jones"  will  for  many  a 
long  year  preserve  the  literary  fame  of  its  au- 
thor, had  a  spirit  not  unlike  that  of  the  Latin 
poet.  These  are  his  words:  "Come,  bright 
love  of  fame.  Comfort  me  by  the  solemn  as- 
surance that  when  the  little  parlor  in  which 
I  now  sit  shall  be  changed  for  a  worse  furnished 
box,  I  shall  be  read  with  honor  by  those  who 
never  knew  or  saw  me."  Even  good  David 
Brainerd  was  not  free  from  this  desire  for  re- 
membrance which,  in  his  Journal,  he  accounts 
to  be  a  sin.  Thus  he  puts  himself  on  record: 
"The  sins  I  had  most  sense  of  were  pride  and 
a  wandering  mind,  and  the  former  of  these  evil 
thoughts  excited  me  to  think  of  writing  and 
preaching  and  converting  the  heathen  or  per- 
forming some  other  great  work  that  my  name 
might  live  when  I  should  be  dead." 

Great  men  believe  in  themselves ;  and  in  how 
many  instances  with  prophetic  vision  they  fore- 
cast their  destiny.  Genius  at  its  best  is  always 
prophetic.  Learning  acquaints  us  with  the  past, 
observation  gives  us  knowledge  of  the  present, 
but  genius  alone  enables  its  possessor  to  antici- 
pate the  future.      This   power  of  prevision  has 


LITERARY  FAME  69 

sustained  many  a  great  man  in  the  hour  of  neg- 
lect. When  Charlotte  Corday  had  donned  the 
red  chemise  des  condemnes  she  said,  "  This  is  the 
toilet  of  death,  arranged  by  somewhat  rude  hands, 
but  it  leads  to  immortality."  Danton  was  asked 
at  his  trial,  "What  is  your  name?  Where  is  the 
place  of  your  abode?"  He  answered,  "My  name 
is  Danton,  a  name  tolerably  well  known  in  the 
Revolution ;  my  abode  will  soon  be  annihilation, 
but  I  shall  live  in  the  pantheon  of  history." 
Junius  was  sure  that  his  book  would  be  read  long 
after  he  had  himself  descended  into  the  grave. 
Such  assurance  creates  within  the  bosom  that 
cherishes  it  an  audacity  the  common  mind  cannot 
understand.  It  gives  to  the  hour  of  defeat  all 
the  support  and  enthusiasm  of  victory;  it  takes 
from  neglect  its  sting,  and  renders  the  soul  indif- 
ferent to  the  poor  opinion  of  a  thoughtless  mul- 
titude. It  was  assurance  born  of  this  prevision 
that  enabled  Thucydides  to  say  of  one  of  his  own 
books,  "It  is  so  composed  as  to  be  regarded  as  a 
permanent  possession,  rather  than  as  a  prize 
declamation  intended  only  for  the  present."  Just 
pride,  noble  ambition,  superiority  to  fate,  undis- 
turbed composure  in  times  of  trouble,  regard  for 
posterity — these  are  not  unworthy  of  a  superior 
man.  It  is  impossible  to  think  that  such  a  man 
could  be  devoid  of  all  these.  "  I  hear  the  voices 
of  generations  yet  to  be,  and  I  hasten  to  render 
myself  worthy  of  their  applause,"  exclaimed  a  re- 
jected philosopher  in  the  hour  of  his  soul's  mar- 


60      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

tyrdom.  Noble  were  the  voices  that  called  to  him ; 
even  nobler  was  his  response.  The  appeal  to  pos- 
terity relieves  the  man  who  can  make  it  from  all 
concern  about  the  "  snap-shot "  opinions  of  the 
rude  and  vulgar,  detaches  the  vision  from  a  poorer 
self  within  one's  own  bosom  that  would,  from  mo- 
tives of  immediate  self-interest,  make  terms  with 
the  canaille ;  it  gives  an  exalted  ideal. 

Yet  a  man  should  make  sure  that  he  is  of  the 
elect.  There  were  great  men  before  Agamemnon, 
but  who  knows  anything  about  them?  There  was 
something  wanting  either  in  the  work  or  in  the 
workman.  It  is  not  wholly  a  fault  of  the  age  that 
we  know  so  little  of  men  who  were  once  so  distin- 
guished. "Time,"  writes  a  gifted  author,  "hath 
spared  the  epitaph  of  Adrian's  horse,  and  coii- 
founded  that  of  himself."  The  impartial  years 
treat  with  calm  indifference  all  our  artificial  dis- 
tinctions. The  houses  of  fame  that  men  build 
with  large  expense  of  space  and  toil  are,  many  of 
them,  of  such  light  pasteboard  that  not  the  faint- 
est evening  breeze  shall  be  able  to  go  by  and  leave 
them  standing.  They  only  are  elect  who  elect 
themselves.  The  work  must  have  in  it  some 
worthy  or,  at  least,  some  unusual  element.  Cis- 
tacious  made  so  gracious  an  obeisance  to  Eternal 
Forgetfulness  that  even  the  silent  genius  of  Ob- 
livion spared  his  name,  and  would  have  spared 
more  had  there  been  more  to  spare.  Not  one 
mason  of  all  those  who  labored  in  the  building  of  the 
Temple  of  Diana  has  left  to  us  even  his  name,  but 


LITERARY  FAME  61 

it  is  known  to  every  schoolboy  that  Herostratus 
burned  that  sacred  structure.  Time,  that  eflPaced 
with  ruthless  hands  so  many  worthy  names,  has 
embalmed  in  history  the  less  worthy  name  of  "the 
aspiring  youth  that  fired  the  Ephesian  dome." 

It  is  common  to  describe  fame  as  a  poor  and 
paltry  thing,  the  while  it  is  the  dearest  ambition 
of  the  very  men  who  thus  describe  it.  Dr.  Bartol 
said,  "Self-forgetfulness  is  God's  remembrance," 
and  it  is  true  that  the  man  who  feeds  upon  him- 
self feeds  upon  littleness,  yet  the  wish  to  escape 
the  fate  of  a  mere  worm  is  surely  not  a  thing  to 
provoke  derision.  Is  one  less  a  man  because  he 
would  aspire  to  a  man's  future.'*  Man  is  not  only 
the  intelligent  observer  of  the  universe,  but  he  is 
in  a  certain  subordinate  sense  its  creator.  For 
him 

"The  blossoming  stars  upshoot — 
The  flower-cups  drink  the  rain." 

All  things  look  to  him  for  recognition.  The 
story  in  Genesis  made  him  master  of  "every  living 
thing."  Unlike  other  animals,  he  faces  the  stars. 
"  I,  who  have  conversed  with  noble  men  and  women 
who  were  as  stars  in  the  firmament  of  our  common 
humanity,  cannot  contemplate  oblivion;  nor 
would  I  lose  the  rich  treasures  of  a  well-filled  mind 
in  the  dark  waters  of  Lethe.  I  would  remember 
and  be  remembered."  Thus  a  great  thinker  ex- 
pressed himself  in  the  hour  of  death.  Man's  do- 
minion over  the  universe  begets  within  him  the 
wish  that  conquers  time. 


62       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Immortality  hangs  upon  a  thread.  A  single 
poem  may  guard  for  long  centuries  the  name  of 
its  fortunate  author. 

"A  single  word  may  make  a  life  immortal 
Immortally  said. 
When  all  the  deeds  this  side  th'  eternal  portal 
Basely  done  are  dead." 

Here  is  a  list,  interesting  though  imperfect,  as  all 
such  lists  must  be,  of  names  saved  from  oblivion 
by  the  happy  accident  of  a  single  inspiration : 

Sarah    Flower    Adams,    "Nearer,    my    God,    to 

Thee." 
S.   J.   Adams,   "We   are   coming,   Father   Abra- 
ham, Three  Hundred  Thousand  More." 
James  Aldrich,  "A  Death-Bed." 
Cecil     Frances     Alexander,     "The     Burial     of 

Moses." 
Elizabeth  Akers  Allen,  "Rock  Me  to  Sleep." 
Ernst    Maritz     Arndt,   "What     is     the    German 

Fatherland  ?" 
Anna  Laetitia  Barbauld,  "Life." 
Lady  Anne   Barnard,   "Auld   Robin  Gray." 
James  Beattie,  "The  Minstrel." 
Ethel  Lj'nn  Beers,  "The  Picket  Guard." 
Robert  Bloomfield,  "The  Farmer's  Boy." 
Francis  William  Bourdillon,  "Light." 
William  Goldsmith  Brown,  "A  Hundred  Years 

to  Come." 
Mrs.  Brewer,  "Little  Drops  of  Water." 
H.  H.  Brownell,  "The  River  Fight." 
Michael  Bruce,  "Elegy  Written  in  Spring." 
Wiliam  Allen  Buter,  "Nothing  to  Wear." 
Henry  Carey,  "Sally  in  our  Alley." 
Phoebe  Gary,  "Nearer  Home." 


LITERARY  FAME  6S 

Eliza  Cook,  "The  Old  Arm-Chair." 

Philip  P.  Cooke,  "Florence  Vane." 

Julia  Crawford,  "We  Parted  in  Silence." 

Richard  Henry  Dana,  "Buccaneer." 

William  Douglas,  "Annie  Laurie." 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  "The  Culprit  Fay/'  and, 
perhaps,  "The  American  Flag." 

Timothy  Dwight,  "Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the 
Ocean." 

Daniel  Emmet,  "Dixie's  Land." 

Thomas  Dunn  English,  "Ben  Bolt." 

David  Everett,  "You'd  Scarce  Expect  One  of 
my  Age." 

William  Falconer,  "The  Shipwreck." 

Francis  M.  Finch,  "The  Blue  and  the  Gray." 

Patrick  S.  Gilmore,  "When  Johnny  Comes 
Marching  Home." 

Thomas  Gray,  "Elegy  Written  in  a  Country 
Churchyard." 

Albert  G.  Greene,  "Old  Grimes." 

Fitz  Greene  Halleck,  "Marco  Bozzaris,"  and, 
perhaps,  "On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman 
Drake." 

Francis  Bret  Harte,  "The  Heathen  Chinee." 

William  Hamilton,  "The  Braes  of  Yarrow." 

Reginald  Heber,  ''From  Greenland's  Icy  Moun- 
tains." 

Julia  Ward  Howe,  "Battle  Hymn  of  the  Repub- 
lic." 

Mary  Woolsey  Howland,  "In  the  Hospital." 

Joseph  Hopkinson,  "Hail  Columbia!  Happy 
Land!" 

Thomas  Ken,  "L.  M.  Doxology" — "Praise  God 
from  Whom  all  blessings  flow." 

Lady  Caroline  Keppel,  "Robin  Adair." 

Francis  Scott  Key,  "The  Star-spangled  Banner." 

Karl  Theodor  Kbrner,  "The  Sword  Song." 


64      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Rouget  de  Lisle,  ''La  Marseillaise." 
William  H.  Lytle,  "Antony  and  Cleopatra," 
Francis  Sylvester    Mahony    ("Father    Prout"), 

"The  Bells  of  Shandon." 
Clement  C.  Moore,  "A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas." 
George  P.  Morris,  "Woodman  Spare  That  Tree." 
William    Augustus    Muhlenberg,    "I    would    not 

Live  always." 
Theodore  O'Hara,  "The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead." 
Kate    Putnam    Osgood,    "Driving     Home    the 

Cows." 
John  Howard  Payne,  "Home,  Sweet  Home." 
Edward  C.  Pinkney,  "I  Fill  a  Cup  to  One  Made 

Up." 
James  R.  Randall,  "Maryland." 
John  Roulstone,  "Mary  had  a  Little  Lamb." 
Max     Schneckenburger,     "The     Watch     on   the 

Rhine." 
F.   H.   Smith,   "Tenting    To-night    on  the  Old 

Camp  Ground." 
Samuel  Francis  Smith,  "America." 
Charles  Sprague,  "Ode  on  Shakspeare." 
John  Still,  "Good  Ale." 

W.  W.   Story,  "Cleopatra."     Story  will  be  re- 
membered as  a  sculptor. 
Rosa  Hartwick  Thorpe,  "Curfew  Must  not  Ring 

To-night." 
Augustus  Montague  Toplady,  "Rock  of  Ages." 
Joseph  Blanco  White,  "Night." 
Richard  Henry  Wilde,  "My  Life  is  Like  a  Sum- 
mer Rose." 
Forceyth  Willson,  "Old  Sargeant." 
Emma   Willard,   "Rock'd  in  the  Cradle  of  the 

Deep." 
Henry  C.  Work,  "Marching  through  Georgia." 
Charles  Wolfe,  "Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore." 


LITERARY  FAME  65 

Samuel  Woodworth,  "The  Old  Oaken  Bucket." 
Andrew  Young,  ''There  is  a  Happy  Land,  Far, 
Far  Away." 

A  number  of  the  poems  included  in  the  above 
list  are  poems  only  by  courtesy,  and  in  some  cases 
it  is  a  courtesy  stretched  almost  to  the  breaking 
point.  Of  course  such  productions  as  "Little 
Drops  of  Water"  and  "Mary  had  a  Little  Lamb" 
are,  without  question,  catalogued  under  the  head 
of  doggerel ;  and,  in  truth,  it  is  in  no  wise  likely 
wise  catalogueable.  Yet  even  the  foolish  rhymes 
named  may  easily  preserve  the  names  of  their  mak- 
ers when  erudite  professors  and  distinguished  judges 
have  been  forgotten.  They  require  no  mental  ex- 
ertion, and  their  appeal  to  our  instinctive  love  of 
rhythm  is  resistless.  The  tintinnabulous  sounds 
of  tinkling  lines  that  lull  to  drowsy  slumber  or 
set  the  feet  in  motion,  as  the  periodical  recurrence 
of  impulses  and  accents  seizes  upon  sensitive 
nerves,  fascinate  and  captivate  the  entire  man. 
Truthfully  the  poet  represents  in  these  lines  the 
marvelous  power  of  his  divine  art : 

"Lo,  with  the  ancient 
Roots  of  man's  nature. 
Twines  the  eternal 
Passion  of  song. 

Ever  Love  fans  it, 
Ever  Life  feeds  it, 
Time  cannot  age  it. 
Death  cannot  slay. 


66      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Deep  in  the  world-heart 
Stand  its  foundations. 
Tangled  with  all  things 
Twin-made  with  all. 

Nay,  what  is  Nature's 
Self,  but  an  endless 
Strife  toward  music. 
Euphony,  rhyme? 

Trees  in  their  blooming, 
Tides  in  their  flowing, 
Stars  in  their  circling. 
Tremble  with  song. 

God  on  his  throne  is 
Eldest  of  poets: 
Unto  his  measures 
Moveth  the  Whole." 

The  two  great  war-songs  on  the  Southern  side 
in  our  civil  conflict  of  half  a  century  ago  were 
"Maryland"  and  "Dixie."  The  first  of  these  was 
published  in  the  Charleston  Mercury,  and  at 
once  became  the  delight  of  the  Confederate  heart. 
The  second,  strange  to  say,  was  written  by  a 
Northern  man  who  was  himself  greatly  surprised 
when  he  found  himself  the  author  of  the  song  most 
popular  with  Southern  soldiers.  But  Daniel  De- 
catur Emmet  did  not  write  it  for  the  use  to 
which  it  was  put.  He  was  a  minstrel  of  the  kind 
our  fathers  liked,  singing  and  cracking  his  jokes 
and  delighting  young  and  old  with  his  peculiar 
mingling  of  wit  and  pathos.  Blackened  with 
burnt  cork,  he  impersonated  the  negro,  and  gave 


LITERARY  FAME  67 

his  audiences  striking  and  new  pictures  of  South- 
ern life.  Thus  he  traveled  over  England,  return- 
ing with  a  fortune  that  slipped  through  his  fin- 
gers, leaving  him  poor  as  he  was  when  first  he 
blackened  his  face  and  strung  his  violin. 

He  was  the  inventor  of  "the  walk-around,"  and 
soon  his  name  was  in  a  million  mouths.  The  lost 
fortune  was  his  again.  He  composed  negro  songs 
with  wonderful  mastery  of  that  peculiar  vein  of 
feeling  and  melody.  Most  of  his  songs  are  no 
longer  remembered,  but  "Dixie"  lived,  and  will 
always  live  because  of  its  old  war-time  associa- 
tions. It  was  as  part  of  a  "walk-around"  that 
"Dixie"  was  constructed.  Of  a  Sunday  night,  un- 
der the  pressure  of  necessity,  the  great  Southern 
war-song  was  written  with  no  thought  of  its  fu- 
ture. The  following  Monday  it  was  sung,  and  a 
new  fortune  fell  into  the  lap  of  Emmet.  It  was 
sung  by  everybody,  and  when,  onl}^  twelve 
months  later,  the  war  commenced,  the  Southern 
soldiers  caught  up  the  strain  and  sang  it  in  the 
camp  and  on  the  march.  Upon  more  than  one 
occasion  they  went  into  battle  singing  it.  It  be- 
came the  great  song  of  the  Confederacy,  made 
sacred  by  the  thousands  of  brave  men  who  per- 
ished with  its  notes  upon  their  lips. 

Many  a  man  once  envied  for  his  wealth  and 
world-wide  renown,  having  played  his  part  upon 
the  stage  of  life,  is  no  longer  remembered ;  but 
how  well  preserved,  like  the  fly  in  amber,  are 
many  names  of  once  lowly  minstrels  because  long 


68      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

years  ago  a  few  simple  lines  touched  the  popular 
heart. 

A  friend,  gazing  thoughtfully  at  some  of  the 
prominent  books  In  my  library,  remarked:  "A 
writer  could,  a  hundred  years  ago,  win  immortal- 
ity with  much  smaller  expenditure  of  intellectual 
power  and  ablHty  than  Is  required  now  to  make 
even  the  faintest  and  most  ephemeral  Impression 
upon  the  reading  world.  Were  John  Ray  and 
Andrew  Bernard  living  today,  they  could  not  find 
a  paper  or  magazine  of  any  standing  that  would 
care  to  publish  their  rhymes.  Hundreds  of  fugi- 
tive verses  in  village  papers  are  far  more  worthy 
of  preservation  than  anything  poet-laureate 
Thomas  Shadwell  ever  dreamed  of  writing."  The 
critlcs's  eye  continued  wandering  over  the  shelves 
until  it  suddenly  lighted  upon  "The  Poems  of 
William  Whitehead,"  and  then  came  an  explosion 
that  was  contagious,  though  not  so  complimentary 
to  my  literary  discrimination  as  I  could  have 
wished.  Whitehead  was  a  quiet  and  inoffensive 
man,  with  a  faculty  for  rhyming,  but  without  the 
faintest  spark  of  fire  divine;  still  he  was  poet- 
laureate  between  Colley  Clbber  and  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Thomas  Warton,  who  was  himself  nothing  of  a 
poet  though  a  very  good-natured  and  scholarly 
man.  The  fact  Is,  when  we  speak  of  an  English 
laureate  we  are  thinking  of  Tennyson,  and  yet  he 
was  but  one  of  the  fifteen  laureled  singers  of  old 
England,  and  he  was  followed  by  Austin,  even 
as  was  Chaucer  by  John  Ray,  and  Dryden  by 
Thomas  Shadwell. 


LITERARY  FAME  69 

Not  the  least  valuable  of  the  familial  volumes 
that  welcome  me  when  it  is  my  fortune  to  open 
them,  are  some  old  hymn  books  with  verses  that 
seem  strange  enough  in  these  days  of  fine  phrases 
and  delicate  rhetoric.  Antiquarians  will  always 
value  Sternhold  and  Hopkins  for  quaint  expres- 
sion of  "old-fashioned  piety."  Metrical  versions 
of  the  Psalms  are  rarely  successful,  but  this  ver- 
sion was  more  than  felicitous,  and  its  good  fortune 
has  not  yet  passed  away.  In  the  edition  of  1602 
are  found  the  remarkable  lines  to  which  refer- 
ence is  often  made,  and  in  which  the  Lord  is  urged 
to  "give  his  foes  a  rap,"  They  are  in  the  twelfth 
stanza  of  the  seventy-fourth  Psalm,  and  read  as 
follows : 

"Why  doest  withdraw  thy  hand  abacke  and  hide  it 
in  thy  lappe.'' 
O,  plucke  it  out  and  be  not  slacke  to  give  thy  foes 
a  rappe." 

Equally  quaint  is  the  thirty-sixth  stanza  of 
the  seventy-eighth  Psalm,  in  which  God's  cove- 
nant of  mercy  is  described  as  a  trade'. 

"For  why,  their  hearts  were  nothing  bent  to  him  nor 
to  his  trade. 
Nor  yet  to  keepe  or  to  performe  the  covenant  that 
was  made." 

These  lines  are  also  very  curious: 

"For  why.^  a  cup  of  mighty  wine  is  in  the  hand  of 
God; 
And  all  the  mighty   wine   therein   Himself   doth 
poure  abroad. 


70       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

As  for  the  lees  an'  filthy  dregs  that  do  remain  of 

it. 
The  wicked  of  the  earth  shall  drink  and  suck  them 

every  whit." 

Of  all  good  books,  ancient  and  modern,  the 
words  of  Carljle  are  forever  true: 

"In  books  lies  the  soul  of  the  whole  Past  Time; 
the  articulate,  audible  voice  of  the  Past,  when  the 
body  and  material  substance  of  it  has  altogether 
vanished  like  a  dream.  Mighty  fleets  and  armies, 
harbors  and  arsenals,  vast  cities,  high-domed, 
many-engined — they  are  precious,  great;  but  what 
do  they  become?  Agamemnon,  the  many  Agamem- 
nons,  Pericleses  and  their  Greece;  all  is  gone  now 
to  some  ruined  fragments,  dumb,  mournful  wrecks 
and  blocks;  but  the  Books  of  Greece!  There 
Greece,  to  every  thinker,  still  very  literally  lives; 
can  be  called  up  again  into  life.  No  magic  Rune 
is  stronger  than  a  Book.  All  that  mankind  has 
done,  thought,  gained,  or  been;  it  is  lying  in  magic 
preservation  in  the  pages  of  Books.  They  are  the 
chosen  possession  of  men." 

Prince  and  peasant  are  equally  mortal.  The 
vast  army  that  marches  oblivionward  without 
halting  day  or  night  is  not  composed  of  the  poor 
and  illiterate  alone.  In  its  ranks  are  lords  and 
ladies  and  proud  bishops  of  half  a  dozen  religious 
denominations.  Not  one  person  in  a  hundred 
thousand  will  be  heard  of  fifty  years  hence.  Not 
more  than  one  in  five  hundred  thousand  will  ever 
be  called  to  mind  at  the  end  of  another  century. 
Darkness  and  oblivion  with  open  arms  wait  to  en- 
fold our  race.    And  yet,  such  is  the  irony  of  fate, 


LITERARY  FAME  71 

in  the  midst  of  all  this  forgetfulness  here  and 
there  some  man  by  mere  accident  impresses  a 
wholly  inconsequent  name  upon  the  enduring  his- 
tory of  our  world,  or  enshrines  it  in  the  imperish- 
able literature  of  mankind.  The  page  that  pre- 
serves for  us  the  name  of  John  the  beloved  re- 
cords as  well  that  of  Judas,  the  betrayer  of  our 
Lord.  Czolgosz  will  live  in  infamy  as  long,  it 
may  be,  as  Washington  will  continue  in  the  love 
and  veneration  of  our  race.  Learned  and  distin- 
guished professors  in  Oxford  and  Harvard  may 
write  many  books,  but  everlasting  Forgetfulness 
awaits  both  them  and  the  literary  results  of  all 
their  toil.  The  shelves  of  the  Bodleian  Library 
are  heavy  with  discarded  intellectual  timber.  Yet 
a  student,  dissatisfied  with  Dr.  Fell,  wrote  four 
lines  of  no  real  value  about  the  dull  but  erudite 
professor,  and  lo !  that  learned  gentleman  put  on 
immortality.  "I  do  not  love  thee.  Doctor  Fell" — 
had  the  clever  translator  rendered  differently  his 
"Martial,"  the  world  would  never  have  known  so 
well  the  name  of  the  now  famous  Oxford  Instruc- 
tor. GifFord,  who  reviewed  Keats'  ''Endymlon" 
with  that  flavor  of  wormwood  which  attached  it- 
self to  nearly  everything  he  wrote,  whether  in  the 
Quarterly  or  In  some  other  equally  self-righteous 
mentor,  once  refused  to  reply  to  an  attack  made 
upon  him  by  an  obscure  poet.  "I  will  not  kick 
the  scamp  Into  Immortality !"  said  he.  Another 
literary  assassin  connected  with  the  Quarterly 
said  of  an  antagonist,  "I  will  not  honor  the  fellow 


72      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

by  spitting  upon  him.  Should  I  do  so  he  would 
boast  of  it  until  his  last  hour  upon  earth.  I  can- 
not touch  him  without  immortalizing  him."  It  is 
known  that  the  Patriarch  of  Alexandria,  who  is 
the  Abyssinian  Pope,  blesses  his  people  by  spit- 
ting upon  them,  and  his  loyal  subjects  believe 
there  is  some  peculiar  virtue  in  episcopal  saUva ; 
but  it  is  only  very  recently  that  the  writer  of  this 
paper  discovered  how  daft  on  the  subject  of  ex- 
pectoration are  English  men  of  letters.  Edward 
Fitzgerald,  the  translator  of  Omar  Khayyam's 
beautiful  poem,  was  once  so  unlucky  as  to  write 
these  inconsiderate  words  about  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing: "Mrs.  Browning's  death  is  rather  a  relief  to 
me,  I  must  say.  No  more  'Aurora  Leighs',  thank 
God !  A  woman  of  real  genius,  I  know ;  but  what 
is  the  upshot  of  it  all?  She  and  her  sex  had  bet- 
ter mind  the  kitchen  and  their  children,  and  per- 
haps the  poor."  Mr.  Browning  was  very  angry, 
and  the  only  thing  he  could  think  of  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  temporary  fury  was  "spitting." 
This  is  what  he  wrote  and  published  in  the 
Athenazum,  as  a  rejoinder  to  Fitzgerald: 

TO  EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

"I  chanced  upon  a  new  book  yesterday, 
I  opened  it,  and  where  my  finger  lay 
'Twixt  page  and  uncut  page  these  words  I  read — 
Some  six  or  seven  at  most — and  learned  thereby 
That  you,  Fitzgerald,  whom  by  ear  and  eye 
She  never  knew,  thanked  God  my  wife  was  dead. 
Ay,  dead,  and  were  yourself  ahve,  good  Fitz., 


LITERARY  FAME  73 

How  to  return  you  thanks  would  task  my  wits. 
Kicking  you  seems  the  common  lot  of  curs^ 
While  more  appropriate  greeting  lends  you  grace; 
Surely  to  spit  there  glorifies  your  face- 
Spitting  from  lips  once  sanctified  by  hers." 

Browning's  lips,  it  appears,  were  sanctified; 
had  his  pen  also  been  somewhat  sanctified  it  is  not 
unlikely  we  should  have  been  spared  the  above 
twelve  lines.  Perhaps  it  is  too  much  to  expect 
entire  sanctification  in  a  modern  Enghshman  of 
letters,  jet  it  is  something  to  know  that  Browning 
was  in  a  measure  sorry  for  his  miserable  screed. 
It  also  helps  us  in  our  appreciation  of  Stevenson 
to  believe  that  he  regretted  his  Damien  letter.  An 
irascible  pen  should  always  be  followed  by  a  peni- 
tent heart.  It  is  not  difficult  to  understand  Fitz- 
gerald's sense  of  relief  when  he  knew  that  the 
author  of  "Aurora  Leigh"  was  safely  stowed 
away  under  the  sacred  shadows  of  the  Kttle  Prot- 
estant cemetery  at  Florence.  "Aurora  Leigh"  is 
a  nine-book  novel  in  verse,  complex  and  full  of 
learned  allusions.  Mr.  Whipple  describes  its 
style  as  "elaborately  infelicitous."  Doubtless  it 
is  a  work  of  genius  and  contains  some  quotable 
passages,  but  most  of  the  poem  is  hard  to  under- 
stand and  its  images  and  allusions  are  far  re- 
moved from  our  common  human  sympathy. 

There  have  been  authors  of  no  mean  ability 
who  from  conscientious  motives  have  suppressed 
their  names,  refusing  to  have  them  printed  on  the 
title-pages  of  their  books.     Of  course  they  were 


74       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

men  of  deep  religious  spirit  who  feared  that  am- 
bition might  supplant  within  their  hearts  a  su- 
preme desire  for  the  glory  of  God,  and  so  alienate 
from  them  and  their  work  the  Divine  Blessing. 
Their  books  treated  of  religious  themes,  and  were 
written  solely  for  the  spiritual  advantage  of  their 
fellow-men.  The  author  of  the  famous  "Imitation 
of  Christ"  furnishes  an  instance  of  such  inward 
humility  and  deliberate  self -surrender.  The  book 
is  usually  attributed  to  Thomas  a  Kempis,  whose 
real  name  was  Hammerlein.  A  copy  of  the  book 
was  found  among  his  papers  after  his  death,  and 
as  it  was  in  manuscript  his  associates  came  at  once 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  its  author.  The 
best  informed  scholars  and  antiquarians  attribute 
it  to  John  Charlier  Gerson,  who  was  Chancellor 
of  the  University  of  Paris  and  Canon  of  Notre 
Dame.  In  well-nigh  every  language  of  the  civil- 
ized world  that  treatise  has  been  published,  and  it 
is  one  of  the  few  immortal  books  in  the  devotional 
literature  of  our  Christian  faith.  Yet  no  one 
whose  claim  carries  with  it  any  weight  ever  sought 
to  be  accounted  the  author  of  that  remarkable 
work.  "The  Whole  Duty  of  Man"  is  another 
book  that  has  gone  over  the  entire  globe,  influ- 
encing for  good  thousands  of  readers.  The  man 
who  wrote  it  wrote  it  out  of  a  deep  spiritual  ex- 
perience, and  his  pen  was  dipped  in  his  own 
heart's  blood.  He  would  not  push  himself  into 
the  light  lest  the  pride  of  this  world,  which  he  so 
feared,  should  come  between  the  blessing  of  God 


LITERARY  FAME  75 

and  his  work.  Heaven's  benediction  was  courted, 
but  the  applause  of  the  world  was  held  to  be  of 
little  account.  Charles  H.  Mackintosh,  an  Eng- 
lish schoolmaster,  would  have  only  the  initials 
C.  H.  M.  printed  upon  many  devout  and  uplift- 
ing books  that  came  from  his  consecrated  pen. 
These  men  were  all  of  them  superior  to  personal 
ambition,  and  in  their  self-surrender  we  see  the 
power  of  strong  and  earnest  faith. 

There  have  been,  on  the  other  hand,  some  mak- 
ers of  religious  literature  who  viewed  the  matter 
differently, — writers  who  found  peculiar  pleasure 
in  closely  associating  their  names  with  what 
seemed  to  them  to  be  for  the  glory  of  God  and  the 
good  of  their  fellowmen.  Their  delight  in  such 
associating  of  themselves  with  God  arose  from  no 
love  of  fame,  but  from  the  thought  that  they  were 
connecting  themselves  with  an  enterprise  that 
seemed  to  them  to  be  more  worthy  of  the  noblest 
thought  and  effort  than  any  other  in  all  the 
world.  Most  of  the  immortal  hymns  that  have  en- 
riched the  sacred  services  of  the  church  have 
rendered  illustrious  the  names  of  their  authors.  It 
is  not  difficult  to  believe  that  Toplady,  who  wrote 
"Rock  of  Ages,"  was  quite  as  devout  as  was  the 
author  of  the  "Imitation  of  Christ."  The  wish  to 
live  on  through  the  centuries  in  beautiful  associa- 
tion with  some  high  and  holy  enterprise  or  some 
piece  of  devout  and  noble  literature  is  certainly 
no  mean  or  unworthy  desire. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  there  is  a  pride  of 


76      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

humility  even  more  offensive  than  the  common  sat- 
isfaction ordinary  men  feel  in  receiving  praise 
from  others.  There  is  nothing  lovely  in  self- 
abasement  practiced  for  its  own  sake.  The  self- 
reliant  man  is  the  successful  man,  and  self-reliance 
implies  some  degree  of  self-assertion.  We  view 
with  pleasure  one  who  conquers  with  resolute 
heart  adverse  circumstances ;  we  are  not  greatly 
disturbed  when  we  find  him  somewhat  inclined  to 
congratulate  himself  upon  well-earned  success. 
But  mock-humility  is  a  thing  to  despise,  for  it  is 
the  meanest  kind  of  hypocrisy.  Both  Coleridge 
and  Southey  are  sure  that  the  devil's  "darling  sin 
is  the  pride  that  apes  humility."  The  entire 
world  feels  by  common  instinct  that  Uriah  Heep 
is  a  detestable  sneak. 

There  have  been  authors  who  from  other  than 
religious  motives  have  striven  to  conceal  their 
identity.  Byron  issued  his  "Don  Juan"  anony- 
mously. Southey  sent  his  book  "The  Doctor" 
into  the  world  with  no  acknowledgment  of  auth- 
orship. Walter  Scott  sent  out  his  novels  as  the 
work  of  "The  Author  of  Waverley"  and  at  the 
same  time,  in  order  to  distract  the  attention  of  the 
public,  he  published  his  poems  and  biography 
under  his  own  name.  Edmund  Burke  at  twenty- 
seven  printed  anonymously  his  "Vindication  of 
Natural  Society,"  which  was  for  a  time  ascribed 
to  Bolingbroke.  Pope  did  not  put  his  name  to 
the  "Dunciad,"  and  to  escape  detection  he  pub- 
lished the  book  in  Dublin.    James  Hogg  was  "The 


LITERARY  FAME  77 

Etrick  Shepherd."  Thomas  Moore  called  himself 
"Thomas  Little"  and  sometimes  "Mr.  Little." 
Professor  Wilson  came  before  the  world  as 
"Christopher  North."  Dr.  Wolcott  was  "Peter 
Pindar."  Francis  Mahoney  disguised  himself  as 
"Father  Prout."  In  later  days  Mrs.  Lewes  was 
"George  Eliot."  Dickens  was  known  as  "Boz." 
Mme.  Dudevant  took  the  name  of  "George  Sand." 
Louise  De  la  Ramee  was  famous  in  every  land  as 
"Ouida."  In  America  Franklin,  Irving,  Dr.  Hol- 
land, Clemens,  Rossiter  Johnson,  and  many  other 
gifted  writers  had  pen  names.  No  one  is  abso- 
lutely sure  that  Sir  Philip  Francis  wrote  "The 
Letters  of  Junius."  Chatterton  had  his  reason 
for  hiding  behind  the  "Rowley  Poems."  Bertram 
and  Ireland  disguised  themselves  as  "Richardus 
Corinensis"  and  "William  Shakspeare."  Neither 
love  of  fame  nor  fear  of  its  consequences  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  their  concealment  of  themselves. 
There  are  to  this  day  those  who  believe  in  a  Celtic 
Homer.  James  Macpherson  knew  right  well  that 
a  stupid  world  could  see  neither  power  nor  beauty 
in  "Fingal"  and  "Temora"  were  it  known  that  he 
was  himself  the  better  part  of  the  great  Ossian. 
How  the  gifted  and  ingenious  Scotchman  must 
have  chuckled  when  he  read  his  friend's  learned 
essay  intended  to  prove  the  authenticity  of  those 
glorious  forgeries.  Dr.  Hugh  Blair,  professor 
of  rhetoric  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  went 
so  far  as  to  declare  his  belief  that  the  poems  of 
Ossian  must  have  been  composed  in  the  hunting 


78       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

stage  of  man's  existence.  "The  allusions  to  herds 
of  cattle  are  not  many,"  said  he  in  his  famous  re- 
view, "and  of  agriculture  there  is  not  a  trace." 
How  Macpherson  managed  to  keep  his  face 
straight  is  more  than  one  who  has  knowledge  of 
the  matter  can  understand.  Think  of  Boswell 
kissing  the  "sacred  relics  of  Shakspeare" — relics 
that  had  been  manufactured  out  of  whole  cloth  by 
one  of  his  own  acquaintances.  Think  of  the  liter- 
ary rascality  of  the  inventor  of  the  false  "Decre- 
tals of  Isidore"  that  for  eight  hundred  years  or 
more  deceived  the  entire  Christian  world.  George 
Psalmanazar  was  the  assumed  name  of  a  literary 
imposter  who  passed  himself  off  for  a  native  of 
the  island  of  Formosa.  After  many  adventures 
he  came  to  London  and  there  translated  the  cate- 
chism of  the  State  Church  into  his  invented  For- 
mosan  language.  He  also  published  a  fictitious 
"Description  of  Formosa."  So  great  was  his  suc- 
cess that  he  made  enough  money  in  two  years  to 
enable  him  to  spend  more  than  five  years  in  idle- 
ness and  extravagance  in  London.  Later  in  life 
he  repented  of  his  evil  ways,  and  for  fifty  years 
conducted  himself  in  so  exemplary  a  manner  and 
with  such  piety  as  to  win  the  confidence  of  all 
who  knew  him.  What  shall  be  said  of  Vella,  Malt- 
land,  Peraira,  Simonides,  and  Baricourt?  Not  all 
who  have  concealed  their  identity  have  had  at 
heart  a  worthy  motive. 

The  real  man  is,  after  all,  not  the  man  with 
whom  we  have  personal  acquaintance.     Not  till 


LITERARY  FAME  79 

Time  has  sifted  out  the  chafF  can  we  garner  the 
pure  grain.  Only  when  the  visible  man  has  be- 
come a  phantom  are  we  able  to  discern  the  sub- 
stantial and  enduring  man  whose  home  is  history, 
and  whose  work  is  the  common  possession  of  an 
entire  race. 

The  story  of  insufficient  compensation  for  good 
literary  work  is  as  old  as  literature  itself.  Ju- 
venal, in  his  Fifth  Satire,  has  left  the  world  bitter 
lines  that  require  no  comment: 

"Quick,  call  for  wood,  and  let  the  flames  devour 
The  hapless  produce  of  the  studious  hour; 
Or  lock  it  up,  to  moths  and  worms  a  prey. 
And  break  your  pens,  and  fling  your  ink  away: — 
Or  pour  it  rather  o'er  your  epick  flights. 
Your  battles,  sieges  (fruit  of  sleepless  nights), 
Pour  it,  mistaken  men,  who  rack  your  brains. 
In  dungeons,  cocklofts,  for  heroick  strains; 
Who  toil  and  sweat  to  purchase  mere  renown, 
A  meagre  statue,  and  an  ivy  crown !" 

And  in  Macrobius  is  a  witty  story  that  comes 
to  the  same  end,  and  impresses  the  same  truth: 

"A  Greek  poet  had  presented  Augustus  with 
many  little  compliments,  in  the  hope  of  some  tri- 
fling remuneration.  The  Emperour,  who  found  them 
of  only  moderate  value,  took  no  notice  of  the  poor 
man;  but,  as  he  persisted  in  offering  him  his  adu- 
latory verses,  composed  himself  an  epigram  in 
praise  of  the  poet;  and  when  he  next  waited  on 
him  with  his  customary  panegyrick,  presented  his 
own  to  him  with  amazing  gravity.  The  man  took 
and  read  it  with  apparent  satisfaction;  then  putting 


80      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

his  hand  into  his  pocket,  he  deliberately  drew  out 
two  farthings  and  gave  them  to  the  Emperour, 
saying,  'This  is  not  equal  to  the  demands  of  your 
situation,  Sire,  but  'tis  all  I  have:  if  I  had  more, 
I  would  give  it  to  you.'  Augustus,  who  was  not  an 
ill-natured  man,  could  not  resist  this;  he  burst  into 
a  fit  of  laughter,  and  made  the  poet  a  handsome 
present." 

Fame  or  money  the  author  justly  accounts  the 
reward  of  worthy  labor — what  shall  be  said  when 
both  are  deserved,  and  neither  is  accorded.'' 
Genius  neglected  in  life  and  forgotten  in  death 
is  one  of  the  saddest  of  all  things  the  literary 
mind  is  ever  called  to  contemplate.  The  story  of 
Chatterton,  a  suicide  at  seventeen  and  buried  in 
a  pauper's  grave,  is  one  of  the  most  familiar  of 
illustrations.  B3'ron  visited  the  last  resting  place 
of  Churchill,  and  thus  describes  it : 

"I  stood  beside  the  grave  of  one  who  blazed. 
The  comet  of  a  season,  and  I  saw 
The  humblest  of  all  sepulchres." 

How  strange  a  thing  is  fame.  It  has  no  visible 
presence,  yet  thousands  woo  it  with  all  the  passion 
of  a  lover,  and  are  willing  to  die  if  only  they  may 
hear  their  names  sounded  from  its  lips  of  song 
and  story.  Verily  men  chase  a  phantom.  Yet  his- 
tory were  something  quite  unlike  the  record  it 
now  is  had  not  the  heart  of  humanity  thrilled  to 
the  music  of  remembrance.  The  grave  is  deep, 
but  vast  are  the  heavens  to  which  we  aspire,  and 
glory  crowns  the  dream  of  youth  as  well  as  the 
toil  of  mid-life  and  the  serene  wisdom  of  age. 


LITERARY  FAME  81 

How  noble  and  yet  how  poor  a  thing  is  Fame. 
The  ancients  said  much  about  its  beauty  and 
evanescence,  and  much  also  about  its  debasing  in- 
fluence over  those  who  gave  it  the  supreme  place 
in  their  hearts.  Marcus  Aurelius  expressed  in 
clear  and  graceful  words  the  feeling  of  the  best 
men  and  women  of  his  day  with  regard  to  all 
earthly  glory: 

MiKpbv  di  Kal  rj  ix7]KlffT7j  vaTepo<p7}fiia,  Kal  airrr]  5rj  /card  StaSoxr?!* 
dvOpuyrraplojv  rdx'crra  redvij^on^vwv,  Kal  oi/K  ei56rw»'  ovSf  eavroi/s 
ovri  ye  rbv  itpbvaKai  TtdyqKbra. 

'AXX4  t6  bo^ipibv  <re  itepicririad. ' Aifiduiv  tit  rb  t6,x'>^  '''V^  rrdv- 
ruv  \ijd-i]%  Kal  rb  xaos  rou  i(p'  eKdrepa  iTttlpov  oi'uJvos,  Kal  rb  Ktvby 
TTJs  drrrjx'fio'fi^i,  Kal  rb  eifierd^oKov  Kal  dKparov  twv  d^'  itiuv 
doKO^yruv  Kal  rb  ffxevbv  rov  r&itov  iv  i^  'nept.ypd(f>tTat..  "OXt;  tc  ydp 
ri  7^  ariynij  Kal  ravrrji  trbffov  yuvldiov  i]  Korofxijo-ts  avrrj',  Kal  iv- 
ravda  it6<toi,  Kal  diol  rtfts  ol  iTraivichfievot. 

In  closing  this  brief  paper  the  writer  would  in- 
sist upon  an  independent  spirit  as  the  essential 
element  in  all  enduring  work.  One  must  dismiss 
anxiety  concerning  the  passing  opinions  of  the 
men  and  women  who  surround  him.  He  must  give 
no  heed  to  seducing  voices.  He  must  refuse  to  be 
the  mouthpiece  of  his  neighbor's  whims  and  con- 
victions. Schopenhauer  has  written  strong  words 
(stronger  still  in  the  German),  and  with  them  let 
this  paper  end: 

"The  history  of  literature  generally  shows  that 

all  those  who  made  knowledge  and  insight  their  goal 

have   remained   unrecognized   and   neglected   whilst 

,  those  who   paraded    with  the    vain  show  of  it  re- 

jceived  the  admiration  of  their  contemporaries,  to- 


82      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

gather  with  the  emoluments.  ...  It  is  a  prime 
condition  for  doing  any  great  work — any  work 
which  is  to  outlive  his  own  age — that  a  man  pay  no 
heed  to  his  contemporaries,  their  views  and  opin- 
ions, and  the  praise  or  blame  which  they  bestow. 
This  condition  is,  however,  fulfilled  of  itself  when 
a  man  does  anything  really  great,  and  it  is  fortunate 
that  it  is  so.  For  if,  in  producing  such  a  work,  he 
were  to  look  to  the  general  opinion  or  the  judgment 
of  his  colleagues,  they  would  lead  him  astray  at 
every  step.  Hence,  if  a  man  wants  to  go  down  to 
posterity,  he  must  withdraw  from  the  influence  of 
his  own  age." 


IV 

BOOK  DEDICATIONS 


"If  my  book  shall  live,  then  live  thy  name, 
Thrice  dear  and  gentle  friend; 
What  bright  meed  I  have  of  worthy  fame. 
Be  thine  till  time  shall  end." 

— Old  Dedication. 

"The  one  human  element  in  many  a  famed  book 
is  its  dedication.  Like  a  flower  that  blooms  in  some 
sheltered  nook  of  the  far  North,  and  there  sheds 
its  fragrance  amid  snow  and  ice,  the  kindly  dedi- 
cation whispers  of  love  upon  the  threshold  of  some 
cold  and  passionless  treatise  of  abstract  truth." 

—"The  Hermit," 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS 

THE  writing  of  elaborate  dedications  and 
graceful  prefaces  was  a  pleasant  custom  of 
the  olden  time.  The  book  was  not  well  presented 
to  good  literary  society  that  had  no  carefully 
written  preface  or  introduction  in  which  was  set 
forth  the  peculiar  merit  of  the  volume,  and  in 
which  was  made  the  usual  debasement  of  the 
author  in  a  salam  of  high-sounding  words.  Some 
of  these  exordiums,  as  Calvin's  Dedication  of  his 
Institution  to  Francis  I.  of  France,  and  Dr. 
Samuel  Johnson's  Preface  to  his  edition  of 
Shakspeare,  are  enduring  monuments  of  good  and 
scholarly  parts.  But  things  are  changed  now, 
and  we  are  fallen  upon  the  rude  and  unattractive 
literature  of  "jerks  and  starts."  Epigrammatic 
and  telegraphic  styles  have  jostled  and  crowded 
from  their  places  the  calm  and  dignified  utter- 
ances of  older  writers.  The  modern  preface  is  re- 
duced to  a  pale  and  ineffectual  "foreword,"  and 
seems  destined  to  become  a  fore-syllable.  Yet 
we  have  this  consolation,  and  it  is  by  no  means 
a  poor  one,  that  in  parting  from  the  dignity  and 
grace  of  the  fathers  we  have  escaped  a  consider- 
able amount  of  fulsome  adulation.  Casaubon's 
"Preface  to  Polybius"  is  no  longer  imitated,  but 
it  comforts  us  to  know  that  now  no  one  is  so 
wanting  in  self-respect  as  to  be  willing  to  tread 
meekly  in  the  steps  of  translators  who  could  dedi- 
85 


86       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

cate  their  rendering  of  the  Sacred  Scriptures  to 
"the  most  high  and  mighty  Prince  James."  Did 
those  venerable  translators  actually  believe  that 
Queen  Elizabeth  was  "a  bright  occidental  star  of 
most  happy  memory"?  It  may  be  they  did;  and 
yet  we  cannot  resist  the  impression  that  in  their 
hearts  they  knew  the  Virgin  Queen  to  be  the  hard 
and  unlovely  shrew  she  most  certainly  was. 

Shorn  of  dedication  and  preface,  the  modern 
feast  of  letters  may  be  commonplace,  but  after 
all,  is  there  not  a  decided  gain  in  self-respect? 
The  authors  who  named  themselves  "a  crumb  of 
mortality,"  "a  pinch  of  dust,"  and  "a  puff  of 
wind"  may  have  described  themselves  correctly, 
but  we  are  unable  to  believe  they  added  anything 
to  the  dignity  of  literary  art.  Many  an  old-time 
dedication  was  humiliating  to  the  last  degree ;  and 
the  amount  of  lying  that  authors,  big  and  little, 
offered  upon  the  altar  of  patronage  was  simply 
astonishing. 

The  long  and  prolix  Preface  is  now  dead  and 
soon  the  grass  will  be  green  over  its  unhonored 
grave.  Never  can  any  literary  resurrection  give 
new  life  to  its  dry  bones.  Perhaps  the  time  is  not 
far  distant  when  the  shorter  Preface  will  also  go 
the  way  of  all  the  living  and  disappear  forever; 
and  the  book,  whatever  might  have  been  its  man- 
ners under  other  circumstances,  will  bolt  into  our 
best  society  with  not  even  so  much  of  ceremony 
as  a  decent  bow.  But  the  Dedication  will,  beyond 
all  question,  survive.     We  like  to  associate  our 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS  87 

work  with  those  we  love.  A  book  is  worth  more 
to  its  author  when  it  bears  in  gracious  lines  and 
tender  phrases  the  loved  one's  name.  Like  a 
sweet  and  fragrant  flower  the  dainty  dedication 
glows  in  beauty  just  over  the  garden  wall  of  some 
volume  otherwise  cold  and  possibly  unattractive. 
We  turn  to  it  again  and  again,  and  the  book 
seems  more  inviting.  It  helps  us  to  think  well 
of  the  author. 

Chief  among  noble  and  attractive  inscriptions 
is  that  which  accompanies  Reiske's  edition  of  the 
Greek  Orators.  Reiske  affixed  his  wife's  portrait 
to  the  learned  and  excellent  work,  and  in  the 
Preface  to  his  first  volume  he  placed  these  beau- 
tiful and  just  words: 

"She  is  a  modest  and  frugal  woman;  she  loves 
me,  and  my  literary  employments,  and  is  an  indus- 
trious and  skillful  assistant.  Induced  by  affection 
for  me,  she  applied  herself  to  the  study  of  Greek 
and  Latin  under  my  tuition.  She  knew  neither  of 
these  languages  when  we  were  married;  but  she  was 
soon  able  to  lighten  the  multifarious  and  very  se- 
vere labors  to  be  performed  in  this  undertaking. 
The  Aldine  and  Pauline  editions  she  alone  com- 
pared ;  also  the  fourth  Augustine  edition.  As  I  had 
taught  her  the  Erasmian  pronounciation,  she  read 
first  to  me  the  Morellian  copy,  while  I  read  those 
in  manuscript.  She  labored  unweariedly  in  ar- 
ranging, correcting  and  preparing  my  confused  copy 
for  the  press.  As  I  deeply  feel,  and  pubhcly  ex- 
press my  gratitude  for  her  aid,  so  I  trust  that  pres- 
ent and  future  generations  may  hold  her  name  in 
honored  remembrance." 


88       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Comte  lacked  Reiske's  calm  dignity,  but  he  had 
much  of  that  author's  sentiment  and  tender  feel- 
ing when  he  made  this  impassioned  address  to 
Madame  de  Vaux,  six  years  after  her  death : 

"Adieu,  my  unchangeable  companion !  Adieu, 
my  holy  Clothilde,  who  are  to  me  at  once  wife,  sis- 
ter and  daughter!  Adieu,  my  dear  pupil,  and  my 
fit  colleague.  Thy  celestial  inspiration  will  domi- 
nate the  remainder  of  my  life,  public  as  well  as  pri- 
vate, and  preside  over  my  progress  towards  perfec- 
tion, purifying  my  sentiments,  ennobling  my 
thoughts,  and  elevating  my  conduct.  Perhaps,  as 
the  principal  reward  to  the  grand  tasks  yet  left  me 
to  complete  under  thy  powerful  invocation,  I  shall 
inseparably  write  thy  name  with  my  own,  in  the 
latest  remembrances  of  a  grateful  humanity." 

I  do  not  know  precisely  why,  but  always 
Comte's  address  to  Clothilde  de  Vaux  reminds  me 
of  the  inscription  which  John  Stuart  Mill  placed 
upon  the  stone  over  his  wife's  tomb  in  the  cem- 
etery at  Avignon,  France.  It  was  January  5, 
1886,  as  I  discover  from  my  note  book,  when  I 
stood  by  the  last  resting  place  of  that  gifted 
woman,  and  copied  upon  a  slip  of  paper  these 
lines: 

The  Beloved  Memory 

of 

Harriet  Mill, 

The  dearly  loved  and  deeply  regretted 

Wife  of  John  Stuart  Mill. 

Her  great  and  loving  heart. 

Her  noble  soul. 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS  89 

Her  clear,  powerful,  original  and 

Comprehensive  intellect 
Made  her  the  guide  and  support. 
The  instructor  in  wisdom. 
And  the  example  in  goodness. 
As  she  was  the  sole  earthly  delight. 
Of  those  who  had  the  happiness  to  belong 
to  her. 
As  earnest  for  all  public  good 
As  she  was  generous  and  devoted 
To  all  who  surrounded  her. 
Her  influence  has  been  felt 
In  many  of  the  greatest 
Improvements  of  the  age. 
And  will  be  in  those  still  to  come. 
Were  there  even  a  few  hearts  and  in- 
tellects like  hers, 
This  earth  would  already  become 
The  hoped  for  heaven. 
She  died, 
To  the  irreparable  loss  of  those 
Who   survive  her. 
At  Avignon,  Nov.  3,  1858. 

John  Stuart  Mill  and  his  wife  now  repose  in 
the  same  tomb.  During  my  brief  visit  to  Avig- 
non I  had  the  good  fortune  to  occupy  the  room 
in  the  little  French  inn  in  which  through  long 
and  lonely  hours  the  great  philosopher  and  distin- 
guished author  watched  in  anguish  of  heart  by 
the  bedside  of  his  dear  wife.  Very  happy  was 
the  married  life  of  Mill.  His  wife  shared  his 
tastes,  his  culture,  and  his  opinions,  and  in  all  his 
literary  work  there  was  abundant  evidence  of  her 
co-operation.     Her  beautiful  soul  made  hfe  radi- 


90       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

ant  with  a  love  which  he  called  divine.  These  are 
the  words  in  which  Mill  dedicates  his  immortal 
"Essay  on  Liberty"  to  his  wife  years  after  her 
death : 

"To  the  beloved  and  deplored  memory  of  her 
who  was  the  inspirer,  and  in  part  the  author,  of  all 
that  is  best  in  my  writings, — the  friend  and  wife 
whose  exalted  sense  of  truth  and  right  was  my 
strongest  incitement,  and  whose  approbation  was 
my  chief  reward, — I  dedicate  this  volume.  Like  all 
that  I  have  written  for  many  years,  it  belongs  as 
much  to  her  as  to  me;  but  the  work  as  it  stands 
has  had,  in  a  very  insufficient  degree,  the  inesti- 
mable advantage  of  her  review;  some  of  the  most 
important  portions  having  been  reserved  for  a  more 
careful  re-examination,  which  they  are  never  des- 
tined to  receive.  Were  I  but  capable  of  interpret- 
ing to  the  world  one-half  the  great  thoughts  and 
noble  feelings  which  are  buried  in  her  grave,  I 
should  be  the  medium  of  a  greater  benefit  to  it  than 
is  ever  likely  to  arise  from  any  thing  that  I  can 
write  unprompted  and  unassisted  by  her  all  but  un- 
rivalled wisdom." 

Balzac  dedicated  his  "Modeste  Mignon"  to  a 
Polish  lady.  Who  the  lady  was  he  does  not  tell 
us,  but  I  think  we  are  safe  in  saying  she  was  none 
other  than  the  Countess  Hanska,  with  whom  the 
gifted  writer  lived  in  happy  wedlock  a  brief  sea- 
son which  he  has  elsewhere  described  as  the  sum- 
mer of  his  earthly  existence: 

TO  A  POLISH  LADY. 

Daughter  of  an  enslaved  land,  angel  through 
love,  witch  through  fancy,  child  by  faith,  aged  by 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS  91 

experience,  man  in  brain,  woman  in  heart,  giant  by 
hope,  mother  through  sorrow,  poet  in  thy  dreams, 
to  thee  belongs  this  book,  in  which  thy  love,  thy 
fancy,  thy  experience,  thy  sorrow,  thy  hope,  thy 
dreams,  are  the  warp  through  which  is  shot  a  woof 
less  brilliant  than  the  poetry  of  the  soul,  whose  ex- 
pression when  it  shines  upon  thy  countenance  is  to 
those  who  love  thee  what  the  characters  of  a  lost 
language  are  to  scholars. 

Worthy  of  a  place  among  beautiful  dedications 
are  the  words  with  which  Loti  prefaces  his  "From 
Lands  of  Exile": 

"I  dedicate  this  to  the  memory  of  a  noble  and 
exquisite  woman,  whose  never  to  be  forgotten  image 
rises  before  me  strangely  vivid  whenever  I  have 
time  to  think.  These  notes  from  the  faraway  Yel- 
low Land  were  originally  written  for  her  alone.  I 
used  to  send  them  to  her  out  of  the  distance  as  a 
sort  of  chat  to  amuse  her  during  the  long,  weary 
months  while  she  was  slowly  fading  out  of  life, 
slowly  and  with  a  serene  smile." 

The  brilliant  author  is  not  satisfied  with  his 
own  graceful  lines,  but  follows  them  with  a  deli- 
cate and  touching  description  of  his  dear  friend. 
He  brings  the  charming  invalid  before  us  in  such 
a  way  as  to  show  her  refinement  and  fascination. 
He  so  associates  the  entire  book  with  her  delight- 
ful personality  that  one  can  never  think  of  it 
without  beholding  as  in  a  vision  the  enchanting 
woman  whose  memory  its  enduring  pages  en- 
shrine. 

With  these  pathetically    beautiful    lines  Eu- 


92      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

gene  Field  dedicates  "A  Little  Book  of  Western 
.Verse"  to  his  sister: 

"A  dying  mother  gave  to  you 
Her  child  a  many  years  ago; 
How  in  your  gracious  love  he  grew, 
You  know,  dear,  patient  heart,  you  know. 

The  mother's  child  you  fostered  then 
Salutes  you  now,  and  bids  you  take 

These  little  children  of  his  pen. 

And  love  them  for  the  author's  sake. 

To  you  I  dedicate  this  book, 

And,  as  you  read  it  line  by  line. 

Upon  its  faults  as  kindly  look 

As  you  have  always  looked  on  mine. 

Tardy  the  offering  is  and  weak. 

Yet  were  I  happy  if  I  knew 
These  children  had  the  power  to  speak 

My  love  and  gratitude  to  you." 

In  all  these  graceful  and  touching  dedications 
it  is  the  heart  rather  than  the  mind  that  speaks. 
And  it  is  just  because  the  dedication  furnishes  so 
happy  an  opportunity  for  the  expression  of  kind- 
ness and  affection  that  it  is  likely  to  endure  when 
the  dull  and  wearisome  preface  and  many  another 
adjunct  of  the  published  book  or  printed  poem 
has  been  forever  abandoned.  In  the  dedication 
the  author  finds  companionship,  and  shares  with 
wife  or  friend  the  praise  which  he  hopes  his  lit- 
erary work  may  bring  him.  The  companionship 
is  sometimes  far  more  enduring  than  one  finds  in 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS  93 

a  brief  life-time  of  a  few  years.  Two  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago  Sir  William  Davenant  wrote  and 
published  his  "Madagascar,"  and  today  two  dear 
friends  live  in  equal  remembrance  with  him  in 
the  graceful  dedication: 

"If  these  poems  live,  may  their  memories  by 
whom  they  are  cherished,  Endymion  Poster  and  H. 
Jarmyn  live  with  them." 

Davenant's  dedication  has  been  imitated  many 
times.  Three  years  after  the  publication  of 
"Madagascar"  Sheppard  dedicated  his  "Epi- 
grams, Theological,  Philosophical  and  Romantic'* 
in  almost  the  same  words: 

"If  these  Epigrams  survive  (maugre  the  vo- 
racitie  of  Time)  let  the  names  of  Christopher  Clap- 
ham  and  James  Winter  (to  whom  the  author  dedi- 
eateth  these  his  devours)  live  with  them." 

The  anonymous  author  of  a  curious  and  now 
scarce  poetical  tract,  "The  Martyrdom  of  St. 
George  of  Cappadocia,  Titular  Patron  of  Eng- 
land and  the  Most  Noble  Order  of  the  Garter," 
which  appeared  in  1614,  dedicated  his  work : 

"To  all  the  Nobles,  Honourable  and  Worthy  in 
Great  Britaine  bearing  the  name  of  George;  and  to 
all  others,  the  true  friends  of  Christian  Chivalrie, 
lovers  of  Saint  George's  name  and  virtues." 

Richard  Brathwayte  prefixed  to  his  "Strappado 
for  the  Divell"  (1615)  the  following  odd  "Epis- 
tle Dedicatorie" : 


94       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

"To  all  usurers,  breakers,  and  promoters,  ser- 
geants, catch-poles,  and  regraters,  ushers,  panders, 
suburbes  traders,  cockneies  that  have  manie  fathers; 
ladies,  monkies,  parachitoes,  marmosites  and  cato- 
mitoes,  falls,  high-tires  and  rebatoes,  false-haires, 
periwigges,  monchatoes,  grave  gregorians  and  shee- 
painters — send  I  greeting  at  adventures,  and  to  all 
such  as  be  evill,  by  Strappado  for  the  Divell." 

William  Hornby  inscribed  his  "Scourge  of 
Drunkenness"  thus: 

"To  all  the  impious  and  relentless-hearted  ruf- 
fians and  roysterers  under  Bacchus'  regiment, 
Cornu-apes  wisheth  remorse  of  conscience  and  more 
increase  of  grace." 

Cornu-apes  was  a  name  Hornby  had  assumed. 
He  followed  the  inscription  with  some  verses  of 
little  value,  and  printed  upon  the  title  page  the 
picture  of  a  wild  man  very  like  an  ape,  smoking 
a  pipe  with  one  hand  and  holding  a  scourge  in 
the  other. 

The  three  inscriptions  last  quoted  are  not  in  any 
true  sense  of  the  word  dedications.  Dedicating-  a 
book  to  the  memory  of  all  the  men  in  Great  Brit- 
ain who  may  happen  to  have  the  name  of  George 
is  like  erecting  a  grave-stone  to  all  who  have  died 
bearing  the  name  of  John  Smith.  As  for  Horn- 
by's inscription,  it  is  a  mere  eccentricity. 

Always  a  true  dedication  is  a  matter  of  feel- 
ing. It  is  a  thing  of  the  heart.  Though  into  it 
a  delicate  humor  or  pleasantry  may  sometimes  in- 
trude, it  can  still  never  be  other  than  gracious, 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS  95 

dignified,  and  affectionate.  A  good  illustration 
of  what  a  book-dedication  should  be  is  found  in 
the  inscription  which  Martha  Baker  Dunn  has 
given  her  "Memory  Street": 

"To  my  father,  a  man  whose  brain  is  as  clear  as 
his  conscience,  and  whose  long  record  of  stainless 
purity  and  integrity  is  his  children's  best  heritage, 
this  book  is  affectionately  dedicated." 

General  Brinkerhoof  thus  dedicates  his  "Recol- 
lections of  a  Lifetime": 

"To  My  Wife.  For  forty-eight  years,  through 
sunshine  and  through  cloudy  weather,  she  has  been 
my  traveling  companion  in  life's  journey,  and  in  all 
the  vicissitudes  of  those  years  she  has  done  more 
than  her  share  in  overcoming  hindrances  and  in 
making  our  journey  enjoyable;  in  all  the  vicissitudes 
of  life  she  has  been  my  counsellor  and  helper,  and 
always  ready  to  make  a  sacrifice  herself  for  my 
advancement  or  comfort.  In  short,  she  has  not 
only  made  my  home  a  haven  of  rest  and  encourage- 
ment, but  she  has  made  my  public  career  possible; 
and  if  I  have  accomplished  anything  of  value,  it  is 
to  her  wise  provision  and  optimistic  faith  in  Provi- 
dential care  it  is  largely  due." 

The  author  of  the  little  book,  "As  Seen  by  Me," 
has  furnished  her  readers  a  very  delightful  dedi- 
cation, but  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  she  did  not 
give  them  the  name  of  her  "speck  of  humanity." 

"To  that  most  interesting  speck  of  humanity,  all 
perpetual  motion  and  kindling  intelligence  and 
sweetness  unspeakable,  my  little  nephew  Billy,  ab- 
sence from  whom  racked  my  spirit  with  its  most 


96      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

unappeasable  pangs  of  homesickness,  and  whose 
constant  presence  in  my  study  since  my  return  has 
spared  the  public  no  small  amount  of  pain." 

It  seems  to  us  that  always  in  every  book  dedi- 
cation and  in  every  mortuary  inscription  the  name 
of  the  person  memorized  should  be  given.  Why 
carve  upon  the  grave-stone  "My  Dear  Father"? 
If  the  name  is  so  sacred  it  may  not  be  transferred 
to  marble,  why  refer  to  the  relationship?  The 
sorrowing  heart  knows  for  whom  it  sorrows,  and 
the  mere  relationship  with  date  and  possibly  a  line 
of  verse  or  of  Scripture  has  for  the  passing 
stranger  no  significance  of  any  kind.  In  future 
years  when  all  who  were  related  are  dead  it  may 
still  be  a  matter  of  interest  to  know  where  some 
one,  humble  in  his  day  but  of  importance  now  in 
local  history,  rests.  We  like  to  see  something  of 
the  story  of  the  man's  life  upon  the  stone  that 
covers  his  dust.  Soon  enough  all  earthly  records 
will  be  effaced.  Let  us  not  anticipate  time  and 
hurry  on  oblivion. 

There  was  about  the  old-fashioned  book-dedi- 
cation not  infrequently  a  vulgar  and  obsequious 
commercialism.  The  author  had  a  patron,  or  he 
was  diligently  seeking  for  one  with  wealth  and 
high  social  standing.  The  Dedication  was  too 
often  for  sale.  There  is  record  of  an  author  who, 
publishing  a  book  in  many  volumes,  dedicated 
each  separate  volume  to  a  different  patron,  and  so 
harvested  a  multifarious  reward  before  any  of 
the  injured  contributors  to  his  exchequer  discov- 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS  97 

ered  the  deception.  The  convenience  of  having 
a  literary  sponsor  was  very  great ;  sometimes  it 
was  an  absolute  necessity.  I  doubt  not  a  consid- 
erable number  of  good  authors  have  fallen  into 
obscurity  and  many  have  failed  of  a  publisher 
through  want  of  some  titled  ignoramus  whose 
name  and  station  would  certainly  have  impressed 
the  book-selling  fraternity.  Some  of  the  old  in- 
scriptions are  exceedingly  humiliating.  The 
author  who  described  himself  as  a  certain  lord- 
ship's "door-mat"  was  not  by  any  means  the  most 
servile  of  the  writing  brotherhood.  A  very  re- 
spectable author  described  the  noble  lady  whose 
name  graced  his  dedication,  and  whose  money 
made  his  book  possible,  as  "a  phoenix  feeding  on 
perfumes,"  Perhaps  he  really  thought  she  re- 
sembled something  of  the  kind.  She  may  have 
been  beautiful,  notwithstanding  the  commercial 
relation  she  sustained  to  author  and  book.  The 
old  patron  system  had  its  good  points,  and  was 
often  of  advantage  to  both  writer  and  benefactor, 
but  it  had  also  its  disadvantages.  It  degraded 
literary  art  and  destroyed  personal  independence. 
It  did  more.  Sometimes  it  cut  up,  root  and 
branch,  all  reverence  for  sacred  things,  and  even 
for  God  Himself.  What  shall  be  said  of  a  dedi- 
cation like  this  which  a  French  writer  bestowed 
upon  Cardinal  Richelieu: 

"Who  has  seen  your  face  without  being  seized 
by  those  softened  terrors  which  made  the  prophet 
shudder  when  God  showed  the  beams  of  his  glory! 


98       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

But  as  he  whom  they  dared  not  approach  in  the 
burning  brush,  and  in  the  noise  of  thunders,  ap- 
peared to  them  sometimes  in  the  freshness  of  the 
zephyrs,  so  the  softness  of  your  august  counte- 
nance dissipates  at  the  same  time  and  changes  into 
dew  the  small  vapours  which  cover  its  majesty." 

It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  the  author  who  in- 
dited the  above  dedication  was  upon  the  death  of 
Richelieu  conscience-stricken,  and  in  a  second  edi- 
tion of  his  book  suppressed  the  blasphemous  in- 
scription, and,  by  way  of  penance,  inscribed  the 
book  to  Jesus  Christ.  When  James  I.  of  England 
answered  Conrad  Vorstius'  book  on  the  attributes 
of  God,  he  saw  no  impropriety  in  the  following 
dedication : 

"To  I  the  Honour  ]  of  our  Lord  and  ]  Saviour 
Jesus  Christ,  |  the  Eternal  Sonne  of  the  |  Eternal 
Father,  the  onely  GEANGPiinoS,  Mediatour,  |  and 
Reconciler  |  of  Mankind,  |  In  signe  of  Thankeful- 
nesse,  |  His  most  humble  |  and  most  obliged  |  Ser- 
vant, James  by  the  Grace  of  |  God,  King  of  Great 
Britaine,  |  France  and  Ireland,  |  Defender  of  the 
Faith,  I  Doeth  dedicate,  and  consecrate  |  this  his 
Declaration." 

Hundreds  of  books,  good,  bad  and  indifferent, 
have  been  dedicated  to  the  Virgin  Mary,  who  is 
variously  addressed  as  the  Mother  of  God,  the 
Queen  of  Heaven,  the  Lady  of  Angels,  and  the 
Rose  of  Mercy.  Thousands  of  appellations  of 
honor  and  praise  have  been  showered  upon  her  by 
Roman  Catholic  authors,  and  in  some  cases  by 
Protestant  writers  as  well.     A  number  of  books 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS  99 

have  been  dedicated  to  the  Apostles,  among  whom 
the  Beloved  John  seems  always  to  be  favored,  not- 
withstanding the  peculiar  eminence  of  Peter. 

In  ancient  pagan  days,  before  men  turned  their 
thoughts  to  the  Holy  Virgin  of  our  Christian 
faith,  Hippolytus  dedicated  a  crown  to  the  beau- 
tiful Diana,  the  goddess  of  hunting,  in  these  ten- 
der and  gracious  words: 

"To  thee,  O  lady,  I  offer  this  crown,  formed  of 
flowers  from  a  pure  meadow,  where  no  shepherd 
thinks  to  lead  his  flock,  nor  scythe  has  come,  but 
the  bee  skims  over  the  pure  spring  meadow,  which 
the  morning  waters  with  river-dews.  To  persons 
whose  knowledge  is  not  acquired  by  learning,  but 
whose  wisdom  is  inspired  by  Nature  in  all  things 
always,  to  them  it  is  allowed  to  cull  the  flowers,  but 
not  to  the  wicked." 

Kenan's  "Life  of  Jesus"  (C.  E.  Wilbour's 
translation)  contains  what  seems  to  the  writer  of 
this  paper  the  most  lovely  dedication  in  all  litera- 
ture. It  is  possibly  too  long,  but  its  exceeding 
great  beauty  would  make  us  loth  to  lose  a  single 
line.  We  give  it  here  as  it  is  found  on  the  open- 
ing page  of  the  gifted  Frenchman's  "Vie  de 
Jesus" : 

"To  the  Pure  Spirit  of  My  Sister  Henrietta,  Who 

Died  at  Byblus,  Sept.  24,  1861. 

Do  you  remember,  from  your  rest  in  the  bosom 
of  God,  those  long  days  at  Ghazir,  where,  alone 
with  you,  I  wrote  these  pages,  inspired  by  the 
scenes  we  had  just  traversed?  Silent  by  my  side 
you  read  every  leaf,  and  copied  it  as  soon  as  writ- 


100       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

ten,  while  the  sea,  the  villages,  the  ravines,  the 
mountains,  were  spread  out  at  our  feet. 

When  the  overwhelming  light  of  the  sun  had 
given  place  to  the  innumerable  army  of  stars,  your 
fine  and  delicate  questions,  your  discreet  doubts, 
brought  me  back  to  the  sublime  object  of  our  com- 
mon thoughts. 

One  day  you  told  me  you  should  love  this  book, 
first,  because  it  had  been  written  with  you,  and  also 
because  it  pleased  you.  If  sometimes  you  feared 
for  it  the  narrow  judgments  of  frivolous  men,  you 
were  always  persuaded  that  spirits  truly  religious 
would  be  pleased  with  it. 

In  the  midst  of  these  sweet  meditations  Death 
struck  us  both  with  his  wing;  the  sleep  of  fever 
seized  us  both  at  the  same  hour.  I  woke  alone !  .  .  . 
You  sleep  now  in  the  land  of  Adonis,  near  the  holy 
Byblus  and  the  sacred  waters  where  the  women  of 
the   ancient  mysteries   came   to   mingle  their  tears. 

Reveal  to  me,  O  my  good  genius,  to  me  whom  you 
loved,  those  truths  which  master  Death,  prevent  us 
from  fearing,  and  make  us  almost  love  it." 

This  is  the  witty  and  kindly  dedication  that 
Lamb  affixed  to  his  "Essays  of  Elia": 

To  the  Friendly  and  Judicious  Reader. 

Who  will  take  these  papers  as  they  were  meant; 
not  understanding  every  thing  perversely  in  the 
absolute  and  literal  sense,  but  giving  fair  construc- 
tion as  to  an  after-dinner  conversation,  allowing 
for  the  rashness  and  necessary  incompleteness  of 
first  thoughts ;  and  not  remembering,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  an  after  taunt,  words  spoken  peradventure 
after  the  fourth  glass.  The  author  wishes  (what 
he  would  will  for  himself)  plenty  of  good  friends 
to  stand  by  him,  good  books  to  solace  him,  prosper- 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS  101 

ous  events  to  all  his  honest  undertakings,  and  a 
candid  interpretation  to  his  most  hasty  words  and 
actions.  The  other  sort  (and  he  hopes  many  of 
them  will  purchase  his  book  too)  he  greets  with  the 
curt  invitation  of  Timon,  'Uncover,  dogs,  and  lap,' 
or  he  dismisses  them  with  the  confident  security  of 
the  philosopher,  'You  beat  but  in  the  case  of 

Elia.' 
Nothing,  it  seems  to  the  writer  of  this  paper, 
could  be  better  in  its   way  than  the  inscription 
which  introduces  "Tristam  Shandy": 

To  the  Right  Honourable  Mr.   Pitt, 

Sir, — Never  poor  wight  of  a  dedicator  had  less 
hopes  from  his  dedication,  than  I  have  from  this  of 
mine;  for  it  is  written  in  a  large  corner  of  the 
kingdom,  and  in  a  retired  thatch'd  house,  where  I 
live  in  a  constant  endeavour  to  fence  against  the 
infirmities  of  ill  health,  and  other  evils  of  life,  by 
winter;  being  firmly  persuaded  that  every  time  a 
man  smiles,  but  much  more  so  when  he  laughs,  that 
it  adds  something  to  this  fragment  of  life. 

I   humbly   beg,   Sir,   that   you   will   honour  this 

book   by   taking   it    (not   under  your   protection,   it 

must  protect  itself,  but)  into  the  country  with  you; 

when  if  I  am  ever  told  it  has  made  you  smile,  or 

can  conceive  it  has  beguiled  you  of  one  moment's 

pain,  I  shall  think  myself  as  happy  as  a  minister  of 

State,  perhaps   much   happier  than   any  one    (one 

only  excepted)  that  I  have  ever  read  or  heard  of. 

I  am,  great  Sir, 

(and  what  is  more  to  your  Honour), 

I   am,  good  Sir, 

Your  well-wisher. 

And  most  humble  Fellow  Subject, 

The  Author. 


102       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

The  whimsical  spirit  of  the  humorist  and  novel- 
ist is  apparent  in  every  line  of  the  foregoing 
inscription,  with  just  enough  of  implied  pathos 
to  awaken  sympathy.  Poor  Sterne  was  not  ten- 
der-hearted. He  was  a  cold  and  licentious  egotist 
who,  to  use  the  words  of  another,  "preferred 
whining  over  a  dead  ass  to  relieving  a  living 
mother."  A  Frenchman  tells  us  that  ''there  was 
nothing  good  in  the  man,  though  his  'Tristam 
Shandy'  is  one  of  the  best  of  books  if  one  likes 
the  kind."  He  did  not  have  the  frank  out-and- 
out  sensuality  of  Fielding,  with  whom  he  is  some- 
times compared,  but  he  had  all  the  rotten  scandal 
of  the  worst  writers  of  his  time.  Taine  lets  his 
readers  into  the  spirit  of  the  man  when  he  writes : 
"That  an  epicurean  delights  in  detailing  the 
pretty  sins  of  a  pretty  woman  is  nothing  wonder- 
ful; but  that  a  novelist  takes  pleasure  in  watch- 
ing the  bedroom  of  a  musty,  fusty  old  couple,  in 
observing  the  consequences  of  the  fall  of  a  burn- 
ing chestnut  in  a  pair  of  breeches,  in  detailing 
the  questions  of  Mrs.  Wadman  on  the  conse- 
quences of  wounds  in  the  groin,  can  only  be  ex- 
plained by  the  aberration  of  a  perverted  fancy, 
which  finds  its  amusement  in  repugnant  ideas,  as 
spoiled  palates  are  pleased  by  the  repugnant  fla- 
vor of  decayed  cheese." 

The  end  of  Sterne  was  a  sad  one.  Alone  and 
deserted,  while  some  of  his  companions  were  ca- 
rousing in  a  neighboring  street,  he  passed  unla- 
mented  to  his  grave,  in  which  he  was  not  allowed 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS  103 

to  rest.  Two  nights  after  his  burial,  he  was  dug 
up  by  grave-robbers  who  sent  him  down  to  Cam- 
bridge, where  Mr.  ColHgnon,  the  distinguished 
Professor  of  Anatomy,  dissected  him  before  some 
of  the  medical  fraternity. 

Formal  and  stilted  in  its  phrasing  and  in  its 
loud-sounding,  but  seemingly  insincere,  expres- 
sion of  humility,  Byron's  inscription  of  "Sardan- 
apalus"  may  be  taken  as  an  illustration  of  what 
a  book  dedication  should  not  be. 

To 

THE    ILLUSTRIOUS   GOETHE 

a  stranger  presumes  to  offer  the  homage 

of  a  literary  vassal  to  his  liege  lord, 

the  first  of  existing  writers 

who  has  created  the  literature  of  his  own  country 

and  illustrated   that  of   Europe. 

The  unworthy  production  which  the  author  ventures 

to  inscribe  to  him 

is  entitled 

SARDANAPALUS 

It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  Byron  ever  re- 
garded anything  that  his  pen  had  given  the  world 
as  an  "unworthy  production."  Certainly  the 
"English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers"  gave  the 
men  of  his  day  a  different  impression.  Byron 
never  lost  sight  of  himself.  Of  himself  he 
thought  and  dreamed.  It  has  been  truly  said,  "He 
could  not  metamorphose  himself  into  another. 
The  sorrows,  revolts,  and  travels  described  in  his 
books  are  all  his  own.  He  does  not  invent,  he  ob- 
serves; he  does  not  create,  he  transcribes.     His 


104       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

copy  is  darkly  exaggerated,  but  it  is  a  copy." 
Surely  the  keen-sighted  Goethe  must  have  discov- 
ered without  much  effort  what  kind  of  humility 
it  was  the  great  English  poet  brought  him  in  the 
dedication  of  "Sardanapalus." 

Thackeray's  inscription  of  "Pendennis"  is  a 
beautiful  tribute  to  a  dear  friend  and  an  able 
physician : 

To 

DR.   JOHN  ELLIOTSON 

My  dear  Doctor, — Thirteen  months  ago,  when  it 
seemed  likely  that  this  story  had  come  to  a  close,  a 
kind  friend  brought  you  to  my  bedside,  whence,  in 
all  probability,  I  never  should  have  risen  but  for 
your  constant  watchfulness  and  skill.  I  hke  to  re- 
call your  great  goodness  and  kindness  (as  well  as 
many  acts  of  others,  showing  quite  a  surprising 
friendship  and  sympathy)  at  that  time,  when  kind- 
ness and  friendship  were  most  needed  and  welcome. 

And  as  you  would  take  no  other  fee  but  thanks, 
let  me  record  them  here  in  behalf  of  me  and  mine, 
and  subscribe  myself. 

Yours  most  sincerely  and  gratefully, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

Thus  Stanley  dedicates  to  the  memory  of  his 
mother  his  "Lectures  on  the  History  of  the  Jew- 
ish Church": 

To  the  dear  memory  of  Her 

by  whose  firm  faith,  calm  wisdom,  and  tender 

sympathy, 

these  and  all  other  labours 

have  for  years  been  sustained  and  cheered: 

TO   MY  MOTHER 

this  work. 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS  106 

which  shared  her  latest  care, 

is    now   dedicated 

in  sacred  and  everlasting  remembrance. 

The  following  are  two  excellent  dedications 
from  the  poet  Swinburne.  The  first,  which  is  af- 
fixed to  "The  Tale  of  Baten,"  throws  a  strong 
and  noble  light  upon  the  heart  of  the  great  writer, 
and  rebukes  those  who  malevolently  represent  him 
as  devoid  of  natural  affection. 

TO  MY  MOTHER 

Love  that  holds  life  and  death  in  fee. 
Deep  as  the  clear,  unsounded  sea 
And  sweet  as  life  or  death  can  be, 
Lays  here  my  hope,  my  heart,  and  me 

Before  you,  silent,  in  a  song. 
Since  the  old,  wild  tale,  made  new,  found  grace. 
When  half  sung  through,  before  your  face. 
It  needs  must  live  a  springtime  space. 

While  April  suns  grow  strong. 

The  second  dedication  prefaces  the  matchless 
"Atlanta  in  Calydon": 

TO    THE    MEMORY   OF    WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR 

I  now  dedicate,  with  equal  affection,  reverence, 
and  regret,  a  poem  inscribed  to  him  while  yet  alive 
in  words  which  are  retained  because  they  were  laid 
before  him;  and  to  which,  rather  than  cancel  them, 
I  have  added  such  others  as  were  evoked  by  the 
news  of  his  death :  that  though  losing  the  pleasure, 
I  may  not  lose  the  honour  of  inscribing  in  front  of 
my  work  the  highest  of  contemporary  names. 

Worthy  of  a  place  among  the  dedications  to 
which  attention  has  been  called  is  one  with  which 


106       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

F.  Hopkinson  Smith  has  enriched  his  delightful 
little  book,  "A  White  Umbrella  in  Mexico" : 

"I  dedicate  this  book  to  the  most  charming  of 
all  the  senoritas  I  know.  The  one  whose  face  lin- 
gers longest  in  my  memory  when  I  am  away,  and 
whose  arms  open  widest  when  I  return.  The  most 
patient  of  my  listeners,  the  most  generous  of  my 
critics,  my  little  daughter,  Marion." 

A  curious  and  interesting  thing  in  connection 
with  the  literature  of  mortuary  and  book  dedica- 
tions is  the  fact  that  domestic  animals  have  had  a 
share  of  remembrance  in  some  popular  and  in 
not  a  few  learned  works.  Their  pet  names  have 
also  been  chiseled  in  the  stones  that  mark  their 
graves ;  and  there  are  now  a  number  of  burial 
gardens  set  aside  for  cats,  dogs,  birds,  and  even 
creatures  of  the  barn-yard.  A  cemetery  for  cats 
has  been  opened  near  London.  The  prospectus, 
in  which  it  is  called  "The  Zoological  Necropolis," 
gives  an  imposing  array  of  patrons,  among  whom 
are  bankers,  brokers,  and  men  and  women  of 
wealth  and  social  standing.  Near  Newport,  the 
fashionable  summer  home  of  American  million- 
aires, is  an  animal  cemetery  where  repose  under 
marble  and  surrounded  by  costly  and  fragrant 
flowers,  the  bodies  of  polo  ponies,  angora  cats, 
and  even  a  few  monkeys  that  have  been  "socially 
prominent."  But  all  this  is  as  nothing  when  we 
consider  the  animal  cemetery  at  St.  Ouen.  To 
borrow  the  words  of  a  modern  magazine  writer: 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS  107 

"Here  are  monuments  of  the  most  elaborate  de- 
scription, and  fresh  wreaths  everywhere.  The 
most  striking  tomb  is  that  of  a  Saint  Bernard  who 
saved  forty  persons,  but  was  killed  by  the  forty- 
first — a  hero  of  whose  history  one  would  like  to 
know  more,  but  the  gatekeeper  is  curiously  unin- 
structed. 

I  walked  among  these  myriad  graves,  all  very 
recent  in  date,  and  was  not  a  little  touched  by  the 
affection  that  had  gone  to  their  making.  I  noted  a 
few  names:  Petit  Bob,  Esperance  (whose  portrait 
is  in  bas-relief,  accompanied  by  that  of  its  mas- 
ter), Peggie,  Fan,  Pincke,  Manon,  Dick,  Siko, 
Lonette  (aged  17  years  and  4  months),  Toby,  Kiki, 
Ben-Ben  (  '  toujours  gai,  Jidele  et  caressant '  — 
what  an  epitaph  to  strive  for!),  Javotte,  Nana, 
Lili,  Dedjaz,  Trinquefort,  Teddy,  and  Prince 
(whose  mausoleum  is  superb),  Fifi  (who  saved 
lives),  Colette,  Dash  (a  spaniel  with  a  little  bronze 
sparrow  perching  on  his  tomb).  Boy,  Bizon  (who 
saved  his  owner's  life  and  therefore  has  this  sou- 
venir), and  Mosque  {regrette  et  Jidele  ami).  There 
must  be  hundreds  and  hundreds  altogether,  and  it 
will  not  be  long  before  another  'God's  Acre'  is  re- 
quired." 

"In  due  time,"  says  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
"we  shall  have  cats'  undertakers."  The  simple 
truth  of  the  matter  is  that  we  already  have  under- 
takers in  our  large  cities  who  devote  themselves 
to  the  burial  of  domestic  animals.  There  was  not 
long  ago  in  New  York  a  dog's  funeral,  and  the 
little  creature,  for  he  was  a  diminutive  lap-dog, 
was  encased  in  an  elegant  satin-lined  casket  which 
was  in  turn  inclosed  in  a  fine  oaken  box.  The 
burial  was  in  a  cemetery  near  Nyack,  N.  Y.    The 


108      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

cost  of  a  casket  and  funeral  for  a  dog  whose  mor- 
tal remains  repose  in  Woodlawn  cemetery  was 
named  to  the  writer,  and  as  near  as  he  remem- 
bers, it  was  something  like  one  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars.  On  the  stones  that  mark  the  graves  of 
various  pets  in  the  cemetery  for  animals  near 
London  one  may  read  some  very  touching  inscrip- 
tions. Harriet  L.  Keeler,  who  wrote  a  charming 
book  on  "Our  Native  Trees,"  dedicates  her  work 
to  two  pet  dogs,  Phyllis  and  Nicholas ;  she  de- 
scribes them  as  her  "loving  companions  through 
field  and  wood."  An  English  lady  inscribed  her 
book  to  her  favorite  cat,  whose  prowess  in  captur- 
ing mice  is  duly  celebrated.  John  Burroughs,  the 
distinguished  naturalist  and  essayist,  dedicated 
his  "Bird  and  Bough,"  a  little  book  of  delightful 
verses,  thus :  "To  the  kinglet  that  sang  in  my 
evergreens  in  October,  and  made  me  think  it  was 
May."  Even  the  canary  bird  has  winged  its  way 
into  the  charmed  circle,  and  readers  far  and  near 
may  listen  to  the  music  of  its  song  in  notes  that 
link  the  feathered  creature  of  the  air  with  the 
charm  of  poetry  and  romance.  Why  should  not 
the  animals  be  remembered?  The  old  Egyptians 
worshipped  the  cat  under  the  name  of  Aelurus. 
It  was  a  tradition  that  Diana  assumed  the  form 
of  a  cat.  Surely  if  religion  is  in  no  wise  dishon- 
ored by  Tabby's  presence,  our  modern  books  are 
not  diminished  in  dignity  by  an  occasional  dedi- 
cation to  a  sparrow,  a  squirrel,  or  a  dog.  So  re- 
nowned a  poet  as  Tasso  celebrated  the  virtues  and 


BOOK  DEDICATIONS  109 

immortalized  the  name  of  a  pet  cat;  and  Chau- 
teaubriand  has  preserved  for  us,  and  for  all  the 
world,  the  name  and  exploits  of  the  famous  Mi- 
cetto. 


V 

AUTHORS  AND  PUBLISHERS 


Murcielagos  literarios 

Que  haceis  a  pluma  y  a  pelo. 
Si  quereis  vivir  con  todos, 

Miraos  en  este  espejo." 

— Yriarte. 

Y  ahora  digo  yo ;   Llene  un  volumen 
De  disparates  un  autor  famoso, 
Y  si  no  le  alebaren,  que  me  emplumen." 

— Yriarte. 


AUTHORS  AND  PUBLISHERS 

VICTOR  HUGO  had  many  and  long  argu- 
ments with  his  friend  Schoelcher,  who  did 
not  believe  in  a  future  life.  One  day  when  Schoel- 
cher had  given  religion  a  peculiarly  bad  name, 
Hugo  retorted:  "Schoelcher,  you  are  quite  right. 
Not  every  one  is  immortal.  Upon  a  certain  day 
Dante  wrote  two  stanzas  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  and 
left  them  on  his  desk  while  he  exercised  in  the  open 
air.  No  sooner  was  the  great  poet  out  of  sight 
than  the  first  stanza  said  to  the  second,  'It  is  a 
fine  thing  to  be  written  by  Dante,  for  that  makes 
us  immortal !'  The  second  stanza  answered,  'I 
am  not  so  sure  of  that ;  do  you  really  believe  that 
both  of  us  shall  live  forever?'  In  a  moment  or 
two  Dante  returned,  re-read  the  stanzas,  and  de- 
ciding that  the  second  was  worthless,  erased 
it."  Whatever  may  be  the  fate  of  that  deli- 
cate and  ethereal  part  of  our  human  construction 
which  theologians  call  the  Soul,  it  is  true  beyond 
doubt  that  some  men  live  many  years,  if  not  for- 
ever, in  the  history  of  the  race  or  in  its  wonderful 
literature  because  the  Power  that  created  them 
made  them  worthy  of  remembrance,  while  count- 
less millions  of  men  and  women  in  all  lands  and 
ages,  strive  as  earnestly  as  they  may,  are  fore- 
doomed to  oblivion. 

It  is  as  Sir  Thomas  Browne  tells  us  in  his  "Urn 
Burial,"    "Oblivion    is    not   to    be   hired."      The 
113 


114       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

greater  part  must  be  content  to  be  as  though  they 
had  not  been — to  be  in  the  register  of  God,  not 
in  the  record  of  man.  It  is  hard  to  find  in  all 
history  a  greater  tragedy  than  that  of  the  unre- 
mitting but  futile  toil  of  inconsequent  persons  to 
make  for  themselves  places  and  names  in  the  en- 
during memorials  of  mankind.  "Mute,  inglorious 
Miltons"  crowd  our  cemeteries.  Georges  Ohnet's 
*'Le  Maitre  des  Forges"  is  one  of  the  good  books 
of  the  world,  but  it  came  very  near  sharing  the 
unhappy  fate  of  Dante's  second  stanza.  Every 
publisher  in  Paris  returned  the  manuscript.  The 
author,  disappointed  and  disgusted,  threw  the 
work  into  the  open  grate  wherein  smouldered  a 
partly  extinguished  fire.  As  the  flames  touched 
the  paper,  Ohnet's  accomplished  wife,  who  had 
herself  assisted  in  the  composition  of  the  book, 
came  into  the  room  and  snatched  the  precious 
manuscript  from  its  perilous  position.  "We  have 
money  enough  and  can  publish  the  book  our- 
selves," she  said,  "and  it  may  be  those  brutal  pub- 
lishers will  yet  rue  the  day  they  let  'Le  Maitre  des 
Forges'  slip  through  their  stupid  fingers."  The 
book  sold  faster  than  Ohnet  and  his  wife  could 
print  it  and  a  score  of  managers  sought  to  obtain 
dramatization  rights,  which  Konig  alone  secured 
after  much  work,  and  the  outlay  of  a  considerable 
sum  of  money.  For  three  hundred  nights  a  bril- 
liant German  actress  sustained  the  character  of 
Claire  de  Beaulieu,  and  it  is  said  that  when  the 
curtain  dropped  upon  the  last  performance  she 


AUTHORS  AND  PUBLISHERS        115 

burst  into  tears  because  she  had  lost  the  dear 
friend  she  had  so  long  impersonated.  Ohnet  was 
fortunate  in  two  things :  He  had  a  cultivated  and 
sympathetic  wife  who  knew  good  literature  and 
could  help  him  in  its  construction,  and  he  had  also 
enough  money  to  render  him  independent  of  the 
publishing  fraternity.  A  good  wife  and  plenty 
of  money !  What  more  can  a  man  want  in  this 
little  life  of  ours?  Yet  with  even  these  one  may 
fail  in  the  world  of  letters  if  there  be  not  sufficient 
genius  for  the  work,  and  with  genius  it  is  even 
possible  to  succeed  without  either  the  counsel  of  a 
wife  or  the  magic  of  money.  It  is  doubtless  the 
duty  of  every  man  to  cultivate  a  forgiving  spirit, 
and  no  one  will  deny  that  "Love  your  enemies" 
includes  the  obligation  to  think  kindly  of  one's 
publishers.  Yet  we  are  most  of  us  very  human. 
If  Dante  could  rejoice  when  he  saw  havoc  made 
of  Filippo  Argenti  by  the  people  of  the  mire, 
surely  so  humble  an  individual  as  the  writer  of  this 
paper  may  hope  to  escape  with  a  whole  skin  when 
he  rejoices  in  the  sad  discomfiture  of  those  Paris 
publishers. 

But  not  all  the  sinners  live  in  France.  English 
publishers  have  made  mistakes,  and  some  very 
serious  ones.  Long  years  ago  "Tristram  Shandy" 
was  offered  to  a  bookseller  at  York,  and  that  same 
bookseller,  turning  up  his  nose  at  what  he 
thought  the  miserable  nonsense  of  a  fool,  in- 
formed Sterne  that  "the  stuff"  was  not  worth 
printing.      "The  sermon  in  Tristram  Shandy," 


116       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

wrote  Sterne  in  his  preface  to  his  "Sermons," 
*'was  printed  by  itself  some  years  ago,  but  could 
find  neither  purchasers  nor  readers."  Its  appear- 
ance in  the  immortal  work  named  created  so  great 
a  demand  for  all  of  the  eccentric  preacher's  dis- 
courses that  an  edition  in  eight  volumes  was  at 
once  projected.  De  Foe,  though  at  the  time  a 
writer  of  acknowledged  ability,  traveled  over  all 
England  endeavoring  to  find  a  publisher  for  his 
"Robinson  Crusoe."  Murray  would  not  give 
Horace  and  James  Smith  twenty  pounds  for  the 
"Rejected  Addresses,"  though  later  when  the  book 
had  made  for  itself  a  name,  he  was  glad  to  pay  one 
hundred  and  thirty  pounds  for  the  right  to  issue 
a  single  edition.  He  could  well  afford  that 
amount,  for  every  copy  was  disposed  of  at  once, 
a  large  part  of  the  edition  being  sold  before  pub- 
lication. After  "Vanity  Fair"  had  been  printed 
in  Colburn's  Magazine,  a  publisher  sa?d  that  he 
did  not  want  it  because  public  interest  had  been 
exhausted  by  its  brief  career  in  the  periodical.  A 
printer  and  bookseller  at  Bath  purchased  Jane 
Austen's  "Northanger  Abbey"  for  ten  pounds, 
and  then  did  not  dare  to  risk  more  money  on  what 
he  accounted  a  "shaky  venture,"  So  great  was 
his  cowardice  that  the  book  remained  unpublished 
a  number  of  years. 

Charles  Wolfe  was  a  good  man  who  preached 
the  Gospel  in  a  desolate  and  lonely  part  of  Ire- 
land. His  parishioners  were  rude  and  poor,  and 
his  home  was  humble  and  bare  of  adornment.    By 


AUTHORS  AND  PUBLISHERS        IIT 

himself,  without  intellectual  sympathy  and  com- 
panionship, the  Irish  clergyman  kept  the  sacred 
fire  burning  upon  the  beautiful  altar  of  literature. 
When  the  labors  of  the  day  were  ended,  his  library 
of  a  few  books  afforded  him  a  safe  and  blessed  re- 
treat from  the  poverty  and  wretchedness  which 
his  parish  duties  compelled  him  to  witness.  It  was 
his  good  fortune  to  write  an  "Ode  on  the  Death  of 
Sir  John  Moore,"  that  Byron  pronounced  one  of 
the  best  short  poems  in  the  English  language.  He 
himself,  though  a  man  of  unusual  humility  of 
spirit,  thought  the  lines  good  and  sent  them  to  the 
most  prominent  magazine  in  England.  The  edi- 
tor returned  the  manuscript  and  pronounced  the 
poem  mere  doggerel.  He  could  find  no  publisher 
and  so,  in  sheer  desperation,  he  gave  the  gem  to 
an  obscure  Irish  paper,  and  it  was  printed  for 
glory  alone. 

Now  that  attention  has  been  called  to  the  lonely 
name  of  Charles  Wolfe,  it  may  interest  the  reader 
to  know,  if  he  does  not  already  know,  that  the 
Irish  poet's  grave  is  in  Clonmel  Parish  church- 
yard, which  was  in  his  day  the  cemetery  of 
Queenstown.  Mrs.  Piatt,  an  American  lady  of 
rare  poetic  gifts  who  has  written  several  books 
of  delightful  verse,  often  visited  that  grave  when 
her  husband  was  United  States  consul  at  Queens- 
town.  In  a  volume  of  poems  which  she  published 
in  1885  there  are  some  pleasing  lines  about 
Wolfe's  last  resting  place,  and  among  them  are 
these : 


118       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

"Where  the  graves   are  many,  we  looked   for  one, 

Oh,  the  Irish  rose  was  red 
And  the  dark  stones  saddened  the  setting  sun 

With  the  names  of  the  early  dead. 
Then  a  child,  who,  somehow,  had  heard  of  him 

In  the  land  we  loved  so  well. 
Kept  sipping  the  grass  till  the  dew  was  dim 

In  the  churchyard  of  Clonmel. 

But  the  sexton  came.     'Can  you  tell  us  where 

Charles  Wolfe  is  buried?'      'I  can. 
See,  that  is  his  grave  in  the  corner  there. 

(Ay,  he  was  a  clever  man. 
If  God  had  spared  him!)     It's  many  that  come 

To  be  asking  for  him,'  said  he. 
But  the  boy  kept  whispering,  'Not  a  drum 

Was  heard,'  in  the  dusk  to  me." 

The  poem  goes  on  to  tell  how  the  gray  sexton 
"tore  a  vine  from  the  wall  of  the  roofless  church" 
where  the  poet's  dust  reposed,  and  swept  from  the 
grave  the  incumbering  leaves  "that  the  withering 
year  let  fall,"  disclosing  upon  the  stone  an  in 
scription  scarcely  legible  and  covered  with  moss 
that  had  to  be  removed  before  a  single  line  could 
be  made  out. 

Mr.  Armistead  C.  Gordon,  in  a  communication 
to  the  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review  of  Books 
and  Art,  under  the  date  of  July  15,  1902,  wrote: 

"Ten  years  after  the  lad  had  sought  for  the 
poet's  grave  in  the  grass  of  the  Clonmel  church- 
yard, Katherine  Tynan,  herself  one  of  the  most 
melodious  and  lovely  of  the  younger  Irish  poets, 
wrote  'Poets  in  Exile,'  a  prose  description  of  the 
Piatts  in   Queenstown,  in  which   she  narrates   the 


AUTHORS  AND  PUBLISHERS        119 

boy's  untimely  death.  In  Clonmel  Parish  Church- 
yard, not  far  from  the  Priory,  Hes  the  second  boy, 
who  was  drowned  in  Queenstown  harbor,  just  be- 
low the  town,  in  188i — a  tragedy  which  evoked  the 
deepest  sympathy.  Readers  of  Mrs.  Piatt's  poetry 
will  remember  her  poem  about  Charles  Wolfe's 
grave.  The  golden-haired  child  who  kept  repeating 
'Not  a  drum  was  heard'  is  now  the  poet's  neighbor 
in  Clonmel  Parish  Churchyard. 

Young  poet,  I  wonder  did  you  care, 

Did  it  move  you  in  your  rest 
To  have  that  child  with  his  golden  hair 

From  the  mighty  woods  of  the  West 
Repeating  your  verse  of  his  own  sweet  will 

To  the  sound  of  the  twilight  bell. 
Years  after  your  beating  heart  was  still 

In  the  churchyard  of  Clonmel?" 

There  were  some  English  publishers  who  re- 
jected "Jane  Eyre."  I  believe  one  of  them  did 
not  think  the  book  was  moral.  Before  Prescott 
gave  Bentley  a  chance  to  print  "The  History  of 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella,"  two  publishers  of  re- 
nown returned  the  manuscript,  and  one  of  them 
was  good  enough  to  tell  the  author  that  his  work 
was  quite  too  dull  and  commonplace  for  English 
readers.  Whatever  may  be  said  for  or  against 
the  incumbents  of  Saint  Peter's  Chair  who  put  so 
much  of  this  world's  best  literature  under  eccle- 
siastical ban,  certain  it  is  that  neither  French  nor 
English  publishers  are  infallible.  Yet  with  all 
their  faults  they  are  more  to  my  mind  than  are 
the  vain-glorious  men  who  figure  in  papers  and 
magazines  as  critics.     Publishers  have  money  at 


120       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

stake,  unless  they  make  the  author  pay  for  the 
printing  of  his  own  books,  but  critics  who  damn 
volumes  they  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  read,  risk 
not  a  single  dollar.  They  do  not  even  come  out 
into  the  open  and  show  themselves.  The  author 
is  tried  and  condemned  without  knowing  even  the 
name  of  his  accuser.  No  stupidity  of  any  pub- 
lisher can  hold  the  candle  to  a  paragraph  like 
this  from  the  Quarterly  Review  for  April,  1818, 
in  which  Mr.  John  Wilson  Croker  discusses 
"Endymion" : 

"This  author  is  a  copyist  of  Mr.  Hunt,  but  he 
is  more  unintelligible,  almost  as  rugged,  twice  as 
diffuse,  and  ten  times  more  tiresome  and  absurd 
than  his  prototype,  who,  though  he  impudently  pre- 
sumed to  seat  himself  in  the  chair  of  criticism,  and 
to  measure  his  own  poetry  by  his  own  standard,  yet 
generally  had  a  meaning.  But  Mr.  Keats  has  ad- 
vanced no  dogmas  which  he  is  bound  to  support  by 
examples ;  his  nonsense  is  therefore  quite  gratui- 
tous; he  writes  it  for  its  own  sake,  and,  being  bitten 
by  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt's  insane  criticism,  more  than 
rivals  the  insanity  of  his  own  poetry." 

Here  is  another  charming  specimen  of  critical 
discernment  and  acuteness  which  purports  to  be 
a  review  of  Caryle's  "French  Revolution."  It 
made  its  appearance  in  the  Athencetim  for  May 
gOth,  1837 : 

"Originality  of  thought  is  unquestionably  the 
best  excuse  for  writing  a  book;  originality  of  style 
is  a  rare  and  refreshing  merit;  but  it  is  paying 
rather  dear  for  one's  whistle  to  qualify  for  obtain- 


AUTHORS  AND  PUBLISHERS        121 

ing  it  in  the  University  of  Bedlam.  Originality, 
without  justness  of  thought,  is  but  noveltj^  of  error; 
and  originality  of  style,  without  sound  taste  and 
discretion,  is  sheer  affectation.  Thus,  as  ever,  the 
corruptio  optimi  turns  out  to  be  pessima;  the  abor- 
tive attempt  to  be  more  than  nature  has  made  us, 
and  to  add  a  cubit  to  our  stature,  ends  by  placing 
us  below  what  we  might  be  if  contented  with  being 
simply  and  unaffectedly  ourselves.  There  is  not, 
perhaps,  a  more  decided  mark  of  the  decadence  of 
literature  than  the  frequency  of  such  extravagance. 
The  applicability  of  these  remarks  to  the  'His- 
tory of  the  French  Revolution,'  now  before  us,  will 
be  understood  by  such  of  our  readers  as  are  fa- 
miliar with  Mr.  Carlyle's  contributions  to  our 
periodical  literature.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  put 
forth  a  few  pages  of  quaintness,  neologism,  and  a 
whimsical  coxcombry,  and  another  to  carry  such 
questionable  qualities  through  three  long  volumes 
of  misplaced  persiflage  and  flippant  pseudo  philo- 
sophy. To  such  a  pitch  of  extravagance  and  ab- 
surdity are  these  peculiarities  exalted  in  the  vol- 
umes before  us  that  we  should  pass  them  over  in 
silence,  as  altogether  unworthy  of  criticism,  if  we 
did  not  know  that  the  rage  for  German  literature 
may  bring  such  writing  into  fashion  with  the  ar- 
dent and  unreflecting." 

American  publishers  may  have  a  long  account 
to  settle,  but  they  are  not  to  be  classed  with  their 
brethren  across  the  sea.  It  is  true  that  Emerson 
was  viewed  with  suspicion  when  he  published  his 
first  book,  and  it  is  also  true  that  it  was  a  long 
time  before  that  book  was  appreciated.  No  one 
had  faith  in  Thoreau's  genius.  At  the  time  Syl- 
vanus    Cobb    was    charming    American    readers 


122       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

through  the  columns  of  the  New  York  Ledger 
with  thrilling  stories  of  love  and  adventure, 
Thoreau  was  industriously  hunting  for  a  pub- 
lisher. He  looked  far  and  near,  but  no  publisher 
appeared  upon  the  horizon.  Lew  Wallace  inter- 
viewed nearly  every  publishing  house  from  Boston 
to  San  Francisco  before  the  Harpers  with  some 
misgivings  consented  to  be  his  good  angel,  and 
printed  "Ben  Hur."  Lafcadio  Hearn  translated 
Gautier's  "Avatar,"  but  could  find  no  publisher. 
One  night,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  he  threw  the 
manuscript  into  the  fire.  Mistakes  have  been 
made  and  are  still  made  on  both  sides  of  the  At- 
lantic, but  the  American  publisher  is,  in  my  opin- 
ion, much  ahead  of  the  craft  on  the  other  side  of 
the  sea.  I  do  not  undertake  to  say  whether  he  has 
a  brighter  mind,  but  I  know  he  has  a  larger  cour- 
age. His  commercialism  may  be  as  great  as  that 
of  the  English  publisher,  but  his  love  of  letters  is 
more  pronounced.  Between  him  and  the  writers 
who  trust  their  literary  fortunes  to  his  keeping 
there  develops  often  a  warm  and  sincere  friend- 
ship. In  America  it  not  infrequently  happens 
that  the  publisher  is  himself  an  author  and  for 
that  reason  understands  sympathetically  the  writ- 
er's feeling,  and  appreciates  his  aim  and  purpose. 
Many  are  the  authors  who  have  greatly  improved 
both  the  literary  form  and  the  market  value  of 
their  books  by  following  advice  freely  given  them 
by  their  publishers. 

It  is  not  generally  known  that  Shelley  always 


AUTHORS  AND  PUBLISHERS        123 

had  to  pay  for  the  publishing  of  his  poems.  Rob- 
ert Browning  published  his  early  books  at  his  own 
expense.  Hans  Christian  Andersen  paid  in  full 
for  the  printing  of  his  exquisite  "Fairy  Tales"  be- 
cause there  was  not  a  publisher  in  Copenhagen 
who  dared  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  work. 
It  is  said  that  publishers  in  the  United  States  are 
not  now  so  timid  and  are  very  much  more  discern- 
ing. Perhaps  it  is  so,  but  we  are  not  all  of  us  so 
sure  of  it.  As  throwing  light  upon  this  subject 
a  paragraph  from  the  Dial  (Chicago)  for  Decem- 
ber 16,  1906,  certainly  possesses  an  amusing  in- 
terest : 

"The  ready  recognition  of  literary  merits  and 
the  eagerness  of  editors  and  publishers  to  welcome 
genius  wheneesoever  it  may  hail,  is  a  theory  often 
urged,  though  naturally  a  little  difficult  of  belief 
to  those  whose  contributions  are  rejected.  Some 
doubter  of  this  class  recently  tried  the  experiment 
of  copying,  with  changes  of  personal  and  place 
names,  one  of  Mr.  Kipling's  most  popular  stories, 
and  sent  it  out  to  ten  leading  magazines  of  this 
country,  by  all  of  which  it  was  politely  declined 
with  no  indication  that  the  hoax  was  discovered. 
Finally  the  very  publishers  who  had  originally  is- 
sued the  story,  after  gravely  weighing  its  merits 
for  seven  weeks,  sent  the  practical  joker  a  letter 
of  acceptance  and  a  check.  Of  course  the  check 
was  returned  and  the  manuscript  recovered.  One 
offered  explanation  of  the  ten  rejections  is  that  al- 
though the  fraud  was  detected,  the  editors  were 
too  polite  to  mention  so  rude  a  thing." 

Ohnet's  wife  is  not  the  only  wife  who  has  had 


124       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

the  good  fortune  to  rescue  a  husband's  work  from 
destruction.  It  is  said  that  Kipling's  "Reces- 
sional" was  taken  from  the  waste  basket  by  Mrs. 
Kipling.  Edward  Rawnsley  is  credited  with  hav- 
ing saved  Tennyson's  beautiful  lyric,  "The 
Brook,"  from  the  flames.  Poor  Warburton  had  no 
friend  at  hand  when  his  servant  lighted  the  fire 
with  his  precious  manuscripts  of  sixty-five  un- 
printed  plays  of  Massinger,  Ford,  Lekker,  Rob- 
ert Green,  Chapman,  Tornure  and  Thomas  Mid- 
dleton.  Lady  Burton  did  not  follow  in  the  steps 
of  Ohnet's  wife,  but  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  she 
did  what  she  did.  She  had  a  woman's  distaste  for 
the  kind  of  literature  her  husband  was  constantly 
translating  from  Oriental  sources ;  and  after  Sir 
Richard  F.  Burton's  death  she  committed  to  the 
flames  the  unpublished  manuscript  of  his  transla- 
tion of  "The  Scented  Garden"  (the  full  title  in 
English  is  "The  Scented  Garden  for  the  Soul's 
Recreation"),  an  Arabic  "Art  of  Love."  She 
was  for  some  time  undecided  as  to  what  was  her 
duty  in  the  matter  of  the  manuscript  which,  with 
all  her  husband's  papers,  came  into  her  possession 
with  his  death.  During  the  period  of  indecision 
she  received  an  offer  of  six  thousand  guineas  for 
the  work.  The  man  who  made  the  off"er  said,  "I 
know  of  from  fifteen  hundred  to  two  thousand 
men  who  will  buy  the  book  at  four  guineas,  that 
is,  at  two  guineas  the  volume,  and  as  I  shall  not 
restrict  myself  as  to  numbers,  but  supply  all  ap- 
plicants on    payment,    I  shall    probably    make 


AUTHORS  AND  PUBLISHERS        125 

twenty  thousand  pounds  out  of  the  transaction." 
Lady  Burton  replied :  "Out  of  the  fifteen  hundred 
men  who  will  probably  read  the  book,  not  more 
than  fifteen  will  regard  it  in  the  spirit  of  science. 
The  remaining  fourteen  hundred  and  eighty-five 
will  devour  the  book  for  its  filth,  and  they  will  also 
pass  it  to  their  friends,  who  will  be  injured  by  the 
publication."  She  received  all  kinds  of  advice  and 
many  tempting  offers.  Alone  with  her  own  heart 
in  the  silence  of  her  chamber,  she  sought  help  from 
above.  She  tells  us  she  knew  that  "what  a  gen- 
tleman, a  scholar,  a  man  of  the  world  may  write 
when  living,  he  might  view  differently  when,  a 
poor,  naked  soul,  he  stands  before  a  pure  God, 
with  all  his  deeds  to  answer  for,  and  their  conse- 
quences to  face  and  endure."  Again  she  tells 
us: 

"My  heart  said,  'you  can  have  six  thousand 
guineas;  your  husband  worked  for  you,  kept  you 
in  a  happy  home  with  honor  and  respect  for  thirty 
years.  How  are  you  going  to  reward  him.''  That 
your  wretched  body  may  be  fed,  and  clothed,  and 
warmed  for  a  few  miserable  months  or  years,  will 
you  let  that  soul,  which  is  part  of  your  soul,  be  left 
out  in  cold  and  darkness  till  the  end  of  time,  till 
all  those  sins  which  may  have  been  committed  on 
account  of  reading  those  writings  have  been  expi- 
ated, or  passed  away  forever?  Why,  it  would  be 
just  parallel  with  the  original  thirty  pieces  of 
silver?' 

I  fetched  the  manuscript  and  laid  it  on  the 
ground  before  me — two  large  volumes'  worth.  Still 
my  thoughts  were,   'would  it  be  a  sacrilege?'     It 


126       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

was  his  magnum  opus — his  last  work,  that  he  was 
so  proud  ofj  that  was  to  have  been  finished  on  the 
awful  morrow — that  never  came.  Will  he  rise  up 
in  his  grave  and  curse  me  or  bless  me?  The  ques- 
tion will  haunt  me  to  death,  but  Sadi  and  El 
Shaykh  el  Nafzawi,  who  were  pagans,  begged  par- 
don of  God  and  prayed  not  to  be  cast  into  hell  fire 
for  having  written  the  work,  and  implored  their 
friends  to  pray  for  them  to  the  Lord,  that  he  would 
have  mercy  on  them." 

The  author  made  this  book  for  scholars  only, 
and  when,  later,  he  saw  the  common  people  read- 
ing it,  he  became  alarmed,  and,  lest  the  book 
should  do  harm,  he  added  these  lines : 

"O  you  who  read  this,  and  think  of  the  author 
And  do  not  exempt  him  from  blame. 
If  you  spare  your  good  opinion  of  him,  do  not 
At  least  fail  to  say  'Lord,  forgive  us  and  him.'  " 

She  continues: 

"And  then  I  said :  'Not  only  not  for  six  thousand 
guineas,  but  not  for  six  million  guineas  will  I  risk 
it.'  Sorrowfully,  reverently,  and  in  fear  and 
trembling,  I  burned  sheet  after  sheet  until  the 
whole  of  the  volume  was  consumed. 

It  is  my  belief  that  by  that  act,  if  my  husband's 
soul  were  weighted  down,  the  cords  were  cut,  and 
it  was  left  to  soar  to  its  native  heaven.  As  we  had 
received  no  money  in  advance  I  was  mistress  of 
the  situation.  If  any  judge  otherwise  and  deem 
me  unworthy  of  their  friendship,  I  must  bear  it  in 
silence." 

Think  of  the  thousands  of  books  that  have  dis- 
appeared, and  among  them  several  referred  to  in 


AUTHORS  AND  PUBLISHERS        127 

our  Sacred  Scriptures.  Where  are  the  sixty-six 
lost  plays  of  i^schylus?  What  would  not  the 
world  give  for  the  plays  of  Euripides  that  have 
vanished?  The  few  plays  that  remain  make  fear- 
fully apparent  the  damage  literature  has  sus- 
tained by  their  destruction.  We  have  but  little  of 
Sophocles.  Of  Sappho  we  have  only  a  few  frag- 
ments. It  may  be  that  somewhere  in  Egyptian 
tombs  or  in  the  buried  city  of  Herculaneum 
manuscripts  of  priceless  value  are  awaiting  the 
pick  and  the  spade  of  the  archaeologist.  Let  us 
hope  it  may  be  so. 


VI 

ETHAN  BRAND 


"Quare  et  tibi,  Publi,  et  piis  omnibus  retinendus 
est  animus  in  custodia  corporis;  nee  injussu  ejus,  a 
quo  ille  est  vobis  datus,  ex  hominum  vita  migrandum 
est,  ne  munus  humanum  assignatum  a  Deo  defugisse 
videamini."  — Cicero. 

"But  is  there  yet  no  other  way,  besides 
These  painful  passages;  how  we  may  come 
To  death,  and  mix  with  out  connatural  dust?" 

•^Milton. 


ETHAN  BRAND 

"I  remember,  I  remember 
The   fir  trees  dark  and   high; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 
Were  close  against  the  sky ; 
It   was   a   childish   ignorance, 
But  now  'tis  little  joy 
To  know  I'm  further  off  from  heaven 
Than  when  I  was  a  boy." 

DEAR  old  Tom  Hood  was  never  so  far  off 
from  heaven  as  sometimes  he  imagined 
himself  to  be ;  and  when,  the  evening  lamp  being 
lighted  and  the  curtains  drawn,  I  forgot  the 
rude  world  as  I  laugh  over  his  whimsicalities  and 
sigh  over  the  tender  pathos  of  his  serious  poems, 
it  seems  to  me  the  sharing  of  his  gentle  compan- 
ionship in  those  merry  English  days  that  can 
never  more  return  must  have  been  something  not 
far  removed  from  heaven.  Rossetti  won  from  me 
something  of  love  and  no  little  silent  but  true 
discipleship  when  he  pronounced  the  poet  of 
"Nellie  Gray"  and  "The  Bridge  of  Sighs"  the 
first  English  poet  between  Shelley  and  Tenny- 
son. I  too  remember  childish  ignorance,  and, 
preacher  though  I  have  been  these  thirty  years, 
I  sometimes  think  I  was  never  so  far  off  from 
heaven  as  I  am  in  these  times  of  perplexed  ex- 
perience and  scholastic  doubt.  Are  we  really  so 
much  nearer   all   that   is   good   and   beautiful   in 

131 


132       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

early  Says  of  careless  fun  and  frolic?  I  know 
not.  Perhaps  we  are  always  nearer  heaven  than 
we  are  wont  to  believe.  I  too  have  dreams  and 
visions;  what  would  life  be  without  the  wonder- 
world  of  imagination  .P  Well  do  I  remember  a 
certain  hamlet  on  the  shore  of  the  beautiful  Hud- 
son, where  that  river  spreads  itself  out  into  the 
wide  expanse  of  Tappan  Bay.  Half  a  century 
ago  it  was  a  lovely  cluster  of  houses  embowered 
in  green,  but  now  it  is  something  hard  to  de- 
scribe— neither  village  nor  city,  but  a  dusty  and 
noisy  town,  ineffectually  struggling  toward 
municipal  life  and  importance.  It  was  there 
that  for  many  years  my  father  served  as  village 
pastor.  The  old  church  building  is  gone  and 
now  a  smart  new  structure  stands  where  rose 
gray,  dingy  walls  that  echoed  the  sound  of  inar- 
tistic praise  in  days  when  paid  choirs  were  "a 
wicked  city  frivolity."  I  did  not  understand  the 
sermons,  and  it  is  more  than  likely  that  they 
were  not  written  with  any  thought  of  the  chil- 
dren, who  were  supposed  to  be  sufficiently  in- 
structed in  the  Sunday  School.  I  remember  the 
long  winter  nights.  They  were  filled  with  curi- 
ous tales  of  genii,  fairies,  and  every  kind  of 
wood-sprite,  goblin,  and  gnome.  Many  were  the 
phantoms  that  lived  in  the  dark  and  shadowy 
woods  that  crowned  the  precipitous  cliffs  called 
in  those  days  "Hook  Mountain."  They  are  dead 
now,  those  astonishing  creatures  that  made  the 
world  romantic  and  attractive  to  a  child's  fancy. 


ETHAN  BRAND  133 

Life  is  a  series  of  disillusionments.  First,  the 
fairies  die,  then  the  wiser  theories  of  early  years, 
later  the  plans  of  a  mature  judgment,  and  last 
of  all  the  radiant  hopes  and,  sometimes,  the  good 
resolves  of  those  weary  days  in  which  we  so  com- 
monly make  a  virtue  of  our  unlovely  necessities. 
But  memory  lives  on  with  a  sweet  and  gentle  per- 
sistence. Out  of  the  wreck  of  life  she  saves  the 
most  beautiful  things,  and  youth  fares  best  of 
all  at  her  hands. 

Beneath  the  spreading  boughs  of  a  certain 
maple  tree  in  my  father's  garden  there  lived  a 
little  winged  creature  capable  of  changing  itself 
at  will  into  man  or  beast.  My  sister  had  seen  a 
headless  ghost,  near  the  shelter  of  a  tall  tree, 
seated  in  the  full  splendor  of  the  moon  on  a 
cloudless  night.  Strange  lights  danced  upon  the 
lawn  at  eventide,  and  startling  sounds  issued  at 
times  from  the  mysterious,  dark  recesses  of  the 
old  garret.  And  all  these  marvelous  phenomena 
of  the  haunted  world  wherein  I  lived  and  moved 
and  had  my  being  were  explained  in  a  most  satis- 
factory Avay  by  a  school-mate  learned  in  such 
matters  and  wise  above  his  years  in  the  folk-lore 
of  childhood.  He  knew  of  a  most  bloody  murder 
that  had  been  committed  long,  long  years  ago  just 
where  grew  a  scraggy  lilac-bush  in  front  of  the 
parlor  window.  There  had  been  a  more  recent, 
though  less  sanguinary,  deed  of  violence  in  the 
room  over  the  parlor,  for  there  I  had  surrepti- 
tiously slashed  my  sister's  doll  and  let  out  the 


134       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

vital  current  of  its  sawdust.  Long  and  bitter 
was  the  mourning  for  little  wax-headed  Jane  with 
eyes  of  heavenly  blue  and  golden  ringlets  of  the 
finest  jute,  wonderful  and  fair  to  behold.  Now 
that  I  am  "further  off  from  heaven  than  when  I 
was  a  boy,"  it  seems  to  me  I  must  have  had  a  pe- 
culiarly angelic  disposition  for  so  young  a  child, 
as  was  evidenced  by  the  speed  with  which  I  mem- 
orized that  most  innutritions  of  literary  docu- 
ments known  as  "The  Westminster  Catechism" 
and  fairly  shouted,  "Man's  chief  end  is  to  glorify 
God  and  enjoy  Him  forever!"  under  the  resist- 
less stimulus  of  a  candy  cane  that  danced  before 
my  vision  as  the  fascinating  reward  of  being  able 
to  repeat  without  mistake  of  any  kind  three  pages 
of  the  "sacred  manual."  With  all  my  celestial 
sweetness  of  disposition  I  failed  to  repent,  I 
grieve  to  say,  of  that  brutal  assault  upon  little 
Jane's  precious  sawdust  until  a  counter  and  pa- 
rental assault  had  been  made  upon  my  sensitive 
integument. 

Under  such  favorable  circumstances  and  with 
such  helpful  environment  I  came  to  know,  as  I 
grew  a  little  older,  something  about  Hoffman's 
"Wierd  Tales,"  Poe's  "Black  Cat,"  Dr.  War- 
ren's "Diary  of  a  Late  Physician,"  and  Haw- 
thorne's "Ethan  Brand."  These  specimens  of 
wild  and  mysterious  literature,  though  somewhat 
hearselike,  gave  me  no  discomfort.  Youth  de- 
lights in  tragedy.  It  is  only  when  later  years 
have  made  one  personally   acquainted  with  real 


ETHAN  BRAND  135 

tragedy  that  there  is  developed  a  more  wholesome 
preference  for  comedy. 

The  tale  of  "Ethan  Brand"  was  a  special  de- 
light, and  even  after  I  had  arrived  at  man's  estate 
I  continued  to  regard  it  as  unique.  That  was 
because  I  knew  so  little  about  books  and  believed 
many  things  original  that  later  I  knew  were 
borrowed,  stolen,  or  begged  from  whatever  treas- 
ury of  literary  resources  happened  to  be  nearest 
at  hand.  Not  much  in  this  world  is  original. 
Shakspeare  pillaged  North's  "Plutarch"  to  make 
his  "Anthony  and  Cleopatra,"  and  it  is  said  that 
even  Homer  dined  on  smaller  fish.  How  surely 
and  swiftly  the  illusions  of  life  dissolve  and  dis- 
appear. The  romance  of  this  world  is  smitten 
with  a  fatal  malady,  and  our  children's  children 
will,  no  doubt,  be  present  at  the  funeral.  How 
many  beautiful  things  and  gracious  arts  are  with 
us  no  more.  Letter-writing  expired  when  men 
came  to  put  their  trust  in  the  telegraph  and  tele- 
phone. Conversation  has  gone  the  way  of  all  the 
living.  In  the  near  future  some  enterprising 
Traction  Company  will  cross  the  lagoon,  and  the 
graceful  gondola  will  be  seen  no  more  on  the 
winding  canals  of  Venice.  Soon  the  department- 
shops  of  Jerusalem,  Bagdad,  and  Mecca  will 
rival  those  of  New  York,  Philadelphia,  and  Chi- 
cago. Under  the  disenchantment  of  the  winged 
years  I  also  came  at  last  to  see  that  "there  is 
nothing  new  under  the  sun"  and  that  the  man 
who  went  in  search  of  the  unpardonable  sin  had 


136       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

his  double  in  real  life  and  in  the  literature  of 
many  lands  as  well.  Thousands  of  distressed  and 
distracted  men  and  women  in  all  countries,  but 
especially  in  orthodox  Scotland  and  in  the  New 
England  of  a  hundred  years  ago,  have  been 
crushed  to  earth  by  the  grim  and  relentless  belief 
that  they  had  themselves  made  the  same  fatal  dis- 
covery that  compassed  the  ruin  of  Ethan  Brand. 
The  goblins  of  our  youth  are  with  us  still.  They 
change  their  names,  and  their  pranks  are  differ- 
ent, but  age  only  increases  their  power.  They 
still  terrify  imagination  and  hurt  the  sensitive 
conscience.  Superstition  wears  a  charmed  life. 
We  die,  but  the  ghosts  live  on.  When  they  are 
no  longer  able  to  plague  us,  they  plague  our 
children  and  our  grandchildren.  Over  and  over 
again  the  wierd  story  of  Francis  Spira,  the  apos- 
tate, has  been  repeated  with  extra  touches  of  hor- 
ror by  casuists  of  nearly  every  shade  of  religious 
belief  and  by  writers  upon  theological  and  eccle- 
siastical themes  in  papers  and  books  without  end. 
The  life  and  last  hours  of  the  once  notorious 
William  Pope  have  been  almost  as  fruitful  of  psy- 
chological mysteries  and  spiritual  terrors.  And 
there  is  the  death  of  Voltaire.  What  a  discus- 
sion, unseemly  in  every  way,  has  concerned  itself 
with  that  man's  last  hours !  Is  it  aught  to  you 
or  to  me,  good  reader,  how  the  gentleman  of 
"sardonic  grin  and  infernal  smirk"  went  out  from 
this  life  so  fragile  and  brief?  Long  ago  he  left 
us,  and  to  make    a  clean    job  of    the  unsavory 


ETHAN  BRAND  137 

affair  a  mob  of  such    men  and    women  as  only 
Paris  can  engender  pulled  him  out  of  his  tomb 
and  we  have  not  even  his  bones,  which  a  certain 
French  writer  said    were  the    most  conspicuous 
thing  about  him  in  his  later  years.     But  we  have 
his  books  and,  with  all  their  faults,  who  would 
wish  them  destroyed?     Their  loss  would  impov- 
erish the  literature  not  of  France  alone,  but  of 
the  entire  world.     And  Thomas  Paine  (good  peo- 
ple still  call  him  "Tom"  Paine)  is  another  bogy 
that  has  been  rubbed  threadbare  by  the  rehgious 
acerbity  of  believers  and  unbelievers.     It  is  more 
than  likely  the  attrition  will  continue.     Let  me 
not  sit  in  judgment  upon  his  character,  nor  in 
this  paper  or  elsewhere  pronounce  upon  the  des- 
tiny of  his  soul.     It  is  to  be  hoped  that  his  im- 
mortal part  fared  better  than  his  bones,  which  in 
1836   were  offered  for  sale  with    the  effects  of 
Mr.  Corbett  in  a  London  auction  room.     Mr.  (he 
used  to  be  called  "Rev.")  Moncure  D.  Conway, 
who  loves  the  memory  of  the  author  of  ''The  Age 
of  Reason,"  is  possessed  of  a  bit  of  Paine's  brain 
which  was  removed  and  preserved  by  Mr.   Ben- 
jamin Tilley.      Conway  paid  twenty-five  dollars 
for    the     little    convolution     of    gray     matter. 
Brains  are  cheap  at  that  rate,  but  Conway  did 
not  need  another  man's  cerebral  tissue;  he  had 
enough  of  his  own,  and  some  to  spare. 

What  interests  me  just  at  present  is  not  the 
mental  condition  nor  yet  the  moral  status  of 
Ethan  Brand,  but  the  peculiar  method  of  self- 


138       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

destruction  which  Hawthorne  selected  as  suited  to 
the  character  of  a  man  who  went  in  search  of  the 
unpardonable  sin  and  found  that  it  was  a  sin  of 
which  he  had  himself  been  guilty.  Ethan  Brand 
ended  his  life  by  leaping  into  a  burning  lime-kiln. 

"Ethan  Brand  stood  erect,  and  raised  his  arms 
on  high.  The  blue  flames  played  upon  his  face, 
and  imparted  the  wild  and  ghastly  light  which 
alone  could  have  suited  his  expression;  it  was  that 
of  a  fiend  on  the  verge  of  plunging  into  his  gulf  of 
intensest  torment. 

O  Mother  Earth/  he  cried,  'who  art  no  more 
my  Mother,  and  into  whose  uosom  this  frame  shall 
never  be  resolved !  O  Mankind,  whose  brotherhood 
I  have  cast  off,  and  trampled  thy  great  heart  be- 
neath my  feet!  O  stars  of  heaven,  that  shone  on 
me  of  old,  as  if  to  light  me  onward  and  upward ! — 
farewell  all,  and  forever.  Come,  deadly  element  of 
Fire, — henceforth  my  familiar  friend!  Embrace 
me,  as  I  do  thee!' 

In  the  morning  when  the  lime-burner  looked 
into  the  kiln  the  marble  was  all  burnt  into  perfect 
snow-white  lime.  But  on  its  surface,  in  the  midst 
of  the  circle, — snow-white  too,  and  thoroughly 
converted  into  lime, — lay  a  human  skeleton,  in  the 
attitude  of  a  person  who,  after  long  toil,  lies  down 
to  long  repose.  Within  the  ribs — strange  to  say 
— was  the  shape  of  a  human  heart. 

'Was  the  fellow's  heart  made  of  marble.'*'  cried 
Bartram,  in  some  perplexity  at  this  phenomenon, 
'At  any  rate,  it  is  burnt  into  wliat  looks  like  special 
good  lime,  and  taking  all  the  bones  together,  my 
kiln  is  half  a  bushel  the  richer  for  him.' 

So  saying,  the  rude  lime-burner  lifted  his  pole, 
and,  letting  it  fall  upon  the  skeleton,  the  relics  of 
Ethan  Brand  were  crumpled  into  fragments." 


ETHAN  BRAND  139 

A  gentleman  who  has  given  much  time  to  the 
study  of  exceptional  and  out-of-the-way  occur- 
rences assured  me  that  the  dreadful  method  of 
suicide  adopted  by  Ethan  Brand  was  wholly 
original  with  the  gentle  and  melancholy  New 
England  novelist.  "Hawthorne,"  he  said,  "con- 
structed the  tale  after  he  had  decided  upon  the 
way  in  which  its  hero  was  to  be  disposed  of;  the 
story  was  made  to  fit  the  denouement.''''  I  must 
think  otherwise.  The  death  of  Empedocles,  who 
threw  himself  into  the  crater  of  Mount  ^Etna, 
might  easily  have  suggested  to  Hawthorne's 
classically  educated  mind  that  fearful  leap  into 
the  burning  lime-kiln;  and  the  philosopher's 
sandal  thrown  up  from  the  volcano  some  time 
afterward  might  have  given  the  author  of 
"Ethan  Brand"  his  first  hint  of  the  snow-white 
skeleton  that  made  the  lime-kiln  half  a  bushel 
richer.  Even  the  death  of  Marcus  Curtius,  who, 
to  secure  the  safety  of  the  Roman  Republic, 
mounted  his  horse  and  rode  full-armed  into  a  gulf 
that  immediately  closed  over  him,  might  have 
awakened  in  Hawthorne's  mind  the  first  thought 
of  that  dreadful  plunge  which  gives  to  the  story 
of  "Ethan  Brand"  its  peculiar  horror. 

It  is  by  no  means  certain  that  the  method  of 
self-destruction  made  use  of  in  the  tale  under 
review  was  without  parallel  in  the  common  life  of 
our  American  people  when  Hawthorne  first  pub- 
lished the  story  of  "Ethan  Brand."  Instances  of 
the  same  kind  of  suicide    in  later    years    are  on 


140       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

record;  and  when  I  take  into  account  the  illit- 
eracy of  the  men  who  thus  disposed  of  them- 
selves, I  find  it  impossible  to  believe  that  they 
were  in  any  wise  influenced  in  the  selection  of  the 
peculiar  kind  of  coup-de-grace  by  the  story  of 
the  man  who  leaped  into  a  burning  lime-kiln.  In 
1883  a  tramp  who  gave  his  name  as  Bell  and  his 
home  as  Jamestown  in  Pennsylvania  stood  for 
some  time  by  a  furnace  in  the  Fay  Williams 
Company  Glass  Works  at  Kent,  Ohio.  He 
smoked  a  pipe  while  the  workmen  were  preparing 
to  throw  sand  into  the  furnace,  which  was  heated 
to  its  greatest  intensity.  The  foreman  ordered 
him  to  step  aside.  "Why  should  I  move  out  of 
your  way?"  enquired  the  tramp.  "Because  I 
want  to  get  at  the  fire,"  was  the  answer.  "So  do 
I,"  said  the  tramp,  and  with  that  he  cast  aside 
his  pipe  and  jumped  through  the  open  door  into 
the  blazing  mass  of  coal  and  gas.  In  1901  an- 
other man  leaped  into  a  blast  furnace  at  the 
Shoenberger  plant  of  the  American  Steel  and 
Wire  Company  at  Pittsburgh,  Pennsylvania.  He 
mounted  the  cage  thirty  feet  above  the  ground 
and  waited  for  a  man  named  Martin  Lee,  who  was 
in  charge  of  the  top  filler,  to  open  the  mouth  of 
the  furnace.  The  moment  the  mouth  was  open 
and  the  flames  shot  skyward,  the  stranger 
leaped  to  his  death.  In  1895  a  remarkable  fun- 
eral took  place  at  the  Midvale  Steel  Works, 
where  an  immense  ingot  of  steel  was  buried  with 
the  rites  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.     The 


ETHAN  BRAND  141 

ingot  contained  the  bodies  of  John  Farkin  and 
Joseph  Gazda,  who  were  engulfed  in  82,000 
pounds  of  molten  steel  which  proceeded  from  a 
leaky  furnace  and  fell  into  a  pit  in  which  the 
men  were  at  the  time  working.  In  one  second 
not  a  vestige  of  the  two  men  remained,  and 
scarcely  a  puff  arose  to  indicate  the  complete  in- 
cineration. 

Ethan  Brand's  death,  horrible  and  striking  as 
it  certainly  was,  cannot  be  called,  in  view  of  what 
has  been  said,  unique.  New  methods  of  self- 
destruction  are  hard  to  find  in  an  age  so  fertile 
of  resources.  Yet  perhaps  the  following  excerpt 
from  a  Medical  Journal  gives  what  is  at  present, 
and  will  long  remain,  an  entirely  unique  method 
of  suicide: 

"A  nurse  at  one  of  the  Paris  hospitals  not  long 
since  tried  a  new  way  of  committing  suicide — 
namely^  by  swallowing  two  tubes  of  Eberth's  pure 
culture  of  the  typhoid  bacillus.  On  the  following 
day  and  the  day  after  that  she  felt  no  inconveni- 
ence. On  the  third  day  she  had  some  headache 
but  no  fever.  On  the  sixth  day  she  felt  heavy  and 
stupid  and  experienced  great  weakness  in  her  legs, 
being  obliged  to  take  to  her  bed.  On  the  seventh 
day  her  temperature  was,  in  the  morning,  37.6°  C. 
and  in  the  evening  38.6°C.  On  the  eighth  day  she 
had  two  attacks  of  epistaxis  and  her  temperature  in 
the  evening  was  40.2°C.  Several  rose  spots  were 
also  visible.  On  the  tenth  day  serum  reaction  was 
positive.  Otherwise  the  typhoid  fever  followed 
its  normal  course,  but  it  was  a  very  severe  attack 
and  the  patient  had  in  all  176  baths.  The  remark- 
able points  of  this  case  are  the  very  short  duration 


142       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

of  the  period  of  incubation, — namely,  only  two 
days — and  the  rapid  appearance  of  the  rose  spots, 
eight  days  after  infection.  M.  Duflocq  and  Voisin, 
who  reported  the  case,  explained  the  very  short 
duration  of  the  incubation  period  by  the  large  quan- 
tity of  bacilli  which  were  introduced  into  the  di- 
gestive tract." 

In  "The  Dream  of  Love"  by  Henry  Abbey 
we  have  a  poem  in  which  the  deadly  power  of  the 
cholera  spirillum  is  made  use  of  in  the  creation  of 
artistic  effect.  The  "heavy  villain"  of  the  poem 
endeavors  to  commit  a  diabolical  murder  by  in- 
troducing into  a  living  human  body  loathsome 
bacteria.  The  germs  are  described  as  they  ap- 
pear under  the  lens  of  a  microscope. 

Even  the  speech  of  Ethan  Brand  which,  ac- 
cording to  Hawthorne,  was  delivered  by  the 
wretched  man  while  he  stood  upon  the  edge  of  the 
Hme-kiln  just  before  his  fatal  leap,  is  paralleled 
in  Matthew  Arnold's  fine  poem,  "Empedocles  on 
i^tna."  These  are  the  words,  so  we  are  told, 
that  the  old-time  philosopher  uttered  when  he 
plunged  into  the  crater: 

"Is  it  for  a  moment? 
— Ah,  boil  up,  ye  vapors ! 
Leap  and  roar,  thou  sea  of  fire! 
My  soul  glows  to  meet  you. 
Ere  it  flag,  ere  the  mists 
Of  despondency  and  gloom 
Rush  over  it  again. 
Receive  me,  save  me!" 

When  one  considers  the  many  painless  methods 


ETHAN  BRAND  143 

of  self-destruction  known  to  men  of  even  mod- 
erate education,  it  is  surprising  that  any  one  pos- 
sessed of  a  sane  mind  should  ever  resort  to  any 
of  those  dreadful  and  violent  assaults  upon  life 
which  seem  to  fascinate  certain  of  our  race.  Why 
do  the  Japanese  disembowel  themselves,  living,  as 
they  do,  so  near  the  great  fields  of  opium-pop- 
pies? Why  should  anyone  drink  that  liquid  fire 
we  call  carbolic  acid  when  one  can  as  easily'  pur- 
chase a  few  ounces  of  benumbing  chloroform?  It 
is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  perverted  human  na- 
ture. 

Perhaps  the  most  fantastic  attempt  at  suicide 
on  record  is  the  one  related  by  Fodere  of  an 
Englishman  who  advertised  that  on  a  certain  day 
he  would  destroy  himself  in  Covent  Garden  "for 
the  benefit  of  his  wife  and  family.  Tickets  of 
admission,  a  guinea  each."  He  deserves  a  place 
in  the  same  paragraph  with  the  man  who  hung 
himself  to  the  clapper  of  the  bell  of  the  church 
at  Fressonville,  in  Picardy,  and  by  swaying  to 
and  fro  caused  the  bell  to  sound  in  a  most  extra- 
ordinary manner.  Of  course  the  sound  gave  the 
alarm  and  he  was  cut  down  before  life  was  ex- 
tinct. 

The  laughter  of  Ethan  Brand  heightens  the 
gruesome  and  uncanny  effect  of  the  tale  and  im- 
parts to  it  a  subtile  and  penetrating  supernatu- 
ralism  which  increases  as  the  narrative  nears  the 
final  catastrophe.  Bartram's  child,  more  sensi- 
tive than  the  coarse  and  rude  lime-burner,  whis- 


144       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

pers :  "He  does  not  laugh  like  a  man  that  is  glad. 
So  the  noise  frightens  me !"  Little  Joe  uncon- 
sciously singles  out  in  that  brief  sentence  the  ele- 
ment of  tragedy  which  distinguishes  the  laughter 
of  Ethan  Brand  from  that  of  the  vulgar  crowd 
at  the  village  inn.  Lawyer  Giles  and  his  com- 
panion, the  tipsy  doctor,  are  pitiable  specimens 
of  our  race,  but  their  noisy  merriment  has  in  it 
nothing  beyond  the  merely  human  note.  The 
laughter  of  Ethan  Brand  is  not  coarse  like  that 
of  the  two  men  named.  It  is  the  laughter  of  a 
nature  that  has  in  some  measure  refined  itself  by 
the  moral  and  intellectual  acuteness  involved  in 
and  developed  by  the  dreadful  quest.  It  is 
purely  a  thing  of  the  understanding  and  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  heart.  Greek  drama- 
tists as  well  as  writers  of  today  agree  in  as- 
cribing to  joyless  laughter  an  element  of 
tragedy.  Victor  Hugo  tells  us  in  "Les  Miser- 
ables"  that  Jean  Valjean,  when  he  had  decided 
to  conceal  his  identity  at  cost  of  a  compara- 
tively innocent  man,  heard  an  "internal  burst  of 
laughter."  It  was  not  the  laughter  of  gladness, 
but  of  a  fiend  within  the  bosom  that  had,  by  an 
evil  resolve,  given  it  fatal  admittance.  Those 
who  have  been  much  with  the  insane,  especially 
with  such  insane  persons  as  imagine  that  they 
have  committed  great  crimes,  know  something  of 
the  penetrating  fear  and  awful  sense  of  calamity 
that  in  their  disordered  laughter  usurp  the  place 
of  human   gladness.       The  vacant  and    joyless 


ETHAN  BRAND  145 

laughter  of  a  maniac,  though  not  to  be  con- 
founded with  the  derisive  laughter  of  Ethan 
Brand,  is  a  thing  from  which  the  sane  and  nor- 
mal mind  shrinks. 

The  ethics  of  suicide  are  not  necessarily  in- 
volved in  the  story  under  review.  We  do  not 
have  to  answer  now  the  question;  "Is  suicide  in 
and  of  itself  an  evil  in  such  a  way  and  to  such 
an  extent  that  it  becomes  a  duty  under  all  cir- 
cumstances to  condemn  it  without  qualification?" 
That  question  might  be  answered  one  way  or  the 
other  without  affecting  in  any  way  either  the 
character  or  the  interest  of  Hawthorne's  narra- 
tive. Still  no  thoughtful  man,  especially  if  he 
be  of  an  introspective  turn  of  mind,  can  read  the 
story  of  that  fearful  leap  into  the  burning  lime- 
kiln without  catching  sight  of  the  not-far-distant 
ethical  problem  that,  though  not  directly  in- 
volved in  the  story,  is  still  suggested  by  it. 
Themistocles  poisoned  himself  in  order  to  avoid 
leading  the  Persians  against  his  countrymen. 
The  Emperor  Otho  killed  himself  to  save  his  sol- 
diers. Every  college  boy  knows  what  was  the 
choice  of  the  noble  virgins  of  Macedon  when  dis- 
honor stared  them  in  the  face.  The  story  of  Ar- 
nold von  Winkleried,  the  Swiss  patriot,  who 
broke  the  Austrian  phalanx  at  the  battle  of 
Sempach  in  1385  by  rushing  against  tlie  points 
of  their  spears  and  gathering  within  his  arms  as 
many  as  he  could  clasp,  commands  the  unquali- 
fied admiration  of  all  good  men  and  women.     He 


146       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

fell  pierced  with  many  wounds,  but  the  Swiss 
were  victorious.  His  act  was  deliberate;  that  is 
to  say,  it  was  one  of  choice  and  not  of  neces- 
sity. It  was  not  the  execution  of  a  military  order 
he  was  compelled  as  a  soldier  to  obey.  Neither 
was  it  the  undertaking  of  a  desperate  enterprise 
that  furnished  him  a  single  chance  of  escape. 
Death  was  certain.  He  intentionally  impaled 
himself  upon  the  Austrian  spears  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  an  end  that  seemed  to  him  so  im- 
portant as  to  warrant  the  sacrifice.  He  made  a 
breach  in  the  Austrian  ranks  through  which  his 
comrades,  passing  over  his  dead  body,  forced  their 
way  to  the  very  heart  of  the  resisting  forces  and 
carried  the  day.  His  last  words  are  thus  re- 
ported: "Friends,  I  am  going  to  lay  down  my 
life  to  procure  you  victory.  All  I  request  is  that 
you  provide  for  my  family.  Follow  me  and  imi- 
tate my  example."  It  matters  little  from  an  ethi- 
cal point  of  view  whether  he  himself  or  the 
Austrian  soldiers  gave  the  deadly  thrust.  Either 
way  the  deed  was  his  own. 

To  come  doAvn  to  modern  times,  let  me  call  at- 
tention to  a  provision  which,  we  are  told,  all  offi- 
cers engaged  in  fighting  Indians  make  for 
escaping  the  dreadful  consequences  of  capture  by 
blood-thirsty  savages.  An  officer  with  whom  I 
was  well  acquainted  assured  me  that  he  always 
carried  poison  with  him  when  he  went  on  an  ex- 
pedition against  hostile  tribes.  He  endeavored  to 
select  a  poison  swift  and  painless  in  its  action, 


ETHAN  BRAND  147 

but  he  accounted  death  by  any  drug  better  than 
the  fate  awaiting  him  in  the  event  of  capture. 
He  once  went  into  a  skirmish  with  aconite  and 
prussic  acid  hidden  in  his  clothing  in  quantities 
sufficient  to  destroy  not  only  his  own  life,  but  the 
lives  of  a  considerable  number  of  his  men. 

Colonel  Inman  some  time  ago  published  in 
Topeka,  Kansas,  a  collection  of  short  stories 
which  he  called  "Tales  of  the  Trail."  In  that 
book  he  expressed  it  as  his  opinion  that  General 
Custer  committed  suicide  at  the  last  moment, 
when  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  hor- 
rors of  capture. 

"With  the  Indians  there  appears  to  be  some  close 
affiliation  between  the  departed  spirit  and  the  hair. 
I  have  questioned  many  a  blood-begrimed  warrior 
why  he  should  want  a  dead  man's  hair^  and  invari- 
ably there  have  been  assigned  a  number  of  reasons, 
three  of  which  are  most  prominent:  First,  it  is  an 
evidence  to  his  people  that  he  has  triumphed  over 
an  enemy;  second,  the  scalps  are  employed  very 
prominently  in  the  incantations  of  the  'medicine 
lodge' — a  part  of  their  religious  rites;  third,  the 
savage  believes  there  is  a  wonderful  power  inherent 
in  the  scalp  of  an  enemy.  All  the  excellent  quali- 
ties of  the  victim  go  with  his  hair  the  moment  it  is 
wrenched  from  his  head.  If  it  be  that  of  a  re- 
nowned warrior,  so  much  the  more  is  the  savage 
anxious  to  procure  the  scalp,  for  the  fortunate  pos- 
sessor then  inherits  all  the  bravery  and  prowess  of 
its  original  owner. 

He  who  kills  himself  in  battle,  accidentally  or 
purposely,  has  positively  no  hereafter;  he  is  irre- 


148         EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

vocably  lost.  Those  who  are  struck  by  lightning 
or  die  by  any  other  apparently  direct  operation  of 
the  Manitou  (the  Great  Spirit)  are  hurriedly 
buried  where  they  fall,  without  any  ceremony,  and 
no  mound  or  other  mark  is  erected  over  them.  If 
after  a  battle  there  are  found  corpses  not  scalped 
or  mutilated,  it  is  certain  that  those  persons  came 
to  death  by  their  own  hand,  for  it  is  part  of  the  re- 
ligion of  an  Indian  not  to  scalp  or  mutilate  the 
body  of  an  enemy  who  has  committed  suicide.  His 
superstition  in  regard  to  persons  dying  by  suicide 
or  by  lightning  is  as  religiously  cherished  as  any 
of  his  other  myths." 

General  Custer  was  found  unscalped  and  wdth- 
out  mutilation.  This  Inman  regards  as  substan- 
tial proof  of  suicide.  Custer  was  known  among 
all  the  Indian  tribes  as  not  only  a  brave  man,  but 
an  officer  of  distinction,  and  no  doubt  the  sav- 
ages were  eager  to  obtain  his  scalp  with  its  sup- 
posed communicable  virtue.  Great  must  have 
been  their  disappointment  when  they  found  that 
Custer  had  escaped  their  cruelty  and  had  de- 
prived his  scalp  of  all  that  made  it  worth  possess- 
ing. 

No  sharp  and  ironclad  rule  can  be  adopted. 
Under  ordinary  circumstances  suicide  is  of  the 
nature  of  murder,  and  yet  circumstances  may 
arise  which  call  for  the  voluntary  surrender  of 
life.  A  man  may  be  required  to  give  his  life  for 
the  preservation  of  another.  A  disabled  ship 
was  about  to  sink.  There  were  not  enough  boats 
to  save  the  entire  crew.  The  sailors  drew  for 
places  in  the  life-boats.      One    sailor    who    had 


ETHAN  BRAND  149 

drawn  a  place  gave  It  to  his  mess-mate  saying: 
"You  have  a  wife  and  little  children  at  home  and 
I  have  no  one  dependent  upon  me.  Take  my 
place ;  it  is  better  that  I  should  die  than  that  you 
should  have  to  leave  a  family  without  support." 
That  man  might  have  saved  himself.  He  was  en- 
titled to  the  place  which  he  surrendered.  In  a 
certain  way  he  may  be  said  to  have  taken  his  own 
life,  but  it  was  at  the  call,  I  will  not  say  of  duty, 
but  of  a  rare  opportunity. 

It  seems  to  me  that  we  may  sometimes  make 
choice  of  the  kind  of  death  we  must  undergo. 
General  Custer  thought  so  when  he  made  sure 
that  the  Indians  should  find  his  dead  body  on  the 
field  of  battle.  In  certain  parts  of  the  world  a 
man  under  sentence  of  death  is  allowed  to  choose 
one  of  three  methods  of  execution.  He  may  elect 
to  be  hanged,  to  be  beheaded,  or  to  be  shot. 
Most  persons  would  much  prefer  the  last  and 
would  certainly  make  that  choice.  Yet  there  have 
been  conscientious  men  who  have  declined  to  ex- 
press a  preference  on  the  ground  that  such  ex- 
pression might  make  them  in  some  measure  re- 
sponsible for  their  own  death. 

After  all  has  been  said  that  can  be  said  by  such 
ancient  writers  as  Lucan,  Epictetus,  and  Pliny, 
and  by  such  modern  authors  as  Hume,  Donne, 
Voltaire,  and  Newman,  it  still  remains  true  that 
self-destruction  is,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
wrong  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  The  question 
of  suicide  is  one  not  to  be  settled  by  either  the 


150       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

opinions  of  Cato  or  the  peculiar  circumstances 
that  surrounded  Philip  Strozzi,  but  by  the  en- 
lightened moral  sense  of  good  men  under  the  in- 
fluence of  Christian  civilization.  Not  all  the 
ancients  agreed  with  Cato  of  Utica.  Darius  is 
represented  as  saying  in  his  darkest  moment:  "I 
will  wait  the  issue  of  my  fate.  You  wonder  that 
I  do  not  terminate  my  life,  but  I  choose  rather  to 
die  by  another's  crime  than  by  my  own."  Ac- 
cording to  Euripides,  Hercules  said :  "I  have  con- 
sidered, and  though  oppressed  with  misfortunes, 
I  have  determined  thus:  Let  no  one  depart  out 
of  life  through  fear  of  what  may  happen  to  him ; 
for  he  who  is  not  able  to  resist  evils  will  fly  like 
a  coward  from  the  darts  of  the  enemy."  The 
laws  of  Thebes  deprived  the  suicide  of  funeral 
rites  and  branded  his  name  and  memory  with  in- 
famy. Equally  severe  was  the  Athenian  law. 
But  for  those  who  live  under  the  brighter  light 
and  larger  privilege  of  modern  civilization  and 
Christian  education  better  arguments  are  at  hand. 
Life  has  been  given  to  us  that  we  may  cherish 
and  use  it  in  accordance  with  the  will  of  Heaven 
for  our  own  good  and  for  the  benefit  of  others. 
Every  man's  life  belongs  not  to  himself  alone, 
but  to  his  friends  and  to  all  the  world.  Even  the 
poorest  life  may  serve  some  good  end.  We  can- 
not say  that  self-destruction  is  at  all  times  and 
under  all  circumstances  evil,  for  instances  have 
been  cited  which  prove  the  contrary,  but  as 
ordinarily  understood  and  as  generally  practiced 


ETHAN  BRAND  151 

by  those  who  resort  to  it  from  cowardly  and  un- 
worthy motives  it  is  certainly  the  sin  against 
God  and  the  crime  against  humanity  which  the 
entire  modern  world  accounts  it  to  be.  The  fa- 
miliar lines  of  Milton  cover,  for  the  most  part, 
man's  duty  in  this  matter: 

"Nor  love  thy  life,  nor  hate:  but  while  thou  liv'st 
Live  well;  how  long  or  short  permit  to  Heaven." 


VII 
THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS 


"Sed  nimirum  quae  sunt  in  manu  hominum,  ea  et 
mihi  et  multis  contigerunt:  illud  vero  ut  adipisci 
arduum,  sic  etiam  sperare  nimium  est,  quod  dari 
non  nisi  a  diis  potest." 

— Plinius  Minor. 

The  world's  wealth  is  its  original  men,  and  it  can 
in  no  wise  forget  them;  not  till  after  a  long  while; 
sometimes  not  till  after  thousands  of  years.  For- 
getting them,  what,  indeed,  should  it  remember? 
The  world's  wealth  is  its  original  men ;  by  these  and 
their  works  it  is  a  world  and  not  a  waste." 

— Carlyle, 


THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS 

PROFESSOR  Cesare  Lombroso's  book,  "The 
Man  of  Genius,"  is  a  work  the  publication 
of  which  good  men  have  reason  to  regret  and  to 
the  title-page  of  which  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
should  have  refused  their  imprint.  The  blas- 
phemous chapters  that  represent  our  Lord  and 
Saviour  Jesus  Christ  as  an  insane  man  of  genius 
and  the  conversion  of  St.  Paul  as  the  result  of 
an  epileptic  seizure  are  painful  and  unprofitable 
reading.  But  putting  aside  the  gross  impiety  of 
the  book,  we  still  find  in  what  remains  Kttle  to 
praise  and  much  to  censure.  The  man  who,  pre- 
tending to  voice  the  latest  results  of  that  de- 
partment of  medical  science  which  deals  with 
diseases  of  the  human  brain  and  disorders  of  the 
mind,  gives  it  as  his  opinion  that  the  greatest 
men  and  women  of  all  lands  and  ages  were  in- 
sane and  that  genius  itself  is  a  neurosis  of  an 
epileptoid  nature,  is  scarcely  to  be  taken  seri- 
ously or  to  be  regarded  with  any  great  consid- 
eration. Our  only  reason  for  calling  attention 
to  "The  Man  of  Genius"  is  to  be  found  in  the 
sad  fact  that  many  untrained  minds,  without 
realizing  the  nature  of  the  book,  absorb  its 
poison  and  are  deluded  by  its  foolish  pretensions. 
The  work  is  printed  in  "The  Contemporary 
Science  Series,"  but  its  claims  to  scientific  stand- 
ing are  slight.  It  is  in  every  sense  a  popular 
165 


156       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

book,  addressed  to  educated  men  and  women  in 
all  departments  of  industry  and  in  all  circles  of 
society.  Dr.  Havelock  Ellis,  who  edits  "The 
Contemporary  Science  Series"  in  which  Lom- 
broso's  book  appears,  is  a  man  of  great  learning 
in  the  not  always  fragrant  departments  of  sci- 
ence which  he  delights  to  investigate.  His  books 
on  "Sexual  Inversion,"  "Modesty,  Sexual  Peri- 
odicity, and  Auto-erotism,"  and  "The  Analysis 
of  the  Sexual  Impulse  in  Women"  are  as  wonder- 
fully suggestive  as  they  are  in  places  surprisingly 
indelicate.  They  are  the  work  of  an  original  in- 
vestigator who  knows  the  way  over  which  he 
travels,  but  who  has  himself  not  much  use  for  the 
"modesty"  which  he  has  subjected  to  the  most  ex- 
acting scientific  analysis.  That  he  is  willing  to 
appear  as  the  editor  of  Lombroso's  book  is  due 
not  so  much  to  any  great  importance  which  he  at- 
taches to  the  work  as  to  the  fact  that  his  attitude 
and  that  of  Lombroso  toward  the  religious  world, 
and  in  some  measure  toward  the  social  world  as 
well,  are  closely  related. 

Lombroso  believes  that  genius  is  a  neurosis. 
The  underlying  foundation  of  the  world's  best 
literature  and  finest  art  is  Bedlam.  Behind  the 
thrilling  deeds  of  heroism  that  make  history  the 
glorious  thing  it  is,  one  may  discover,  if  he  will, 
the  disordered  visage  of  Topsy-Turvy.  Max 
Nordau,  whose  book  called  "Degeneration"  made 
him  famous  with  unscientific  readers,  agrees  with 
Lombroso  in  defining  genius  as  a  morbid  affection 


THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS  157 

of  the  nervous  system.  But  he  still  thinks  there 
may  be  cases  in  which  genius  is  not  morbid.  He 
tells  us  that  "science  does  not  assert  that  every 
genius  is  a  lunatic;  there  are  some  geniuses  of 
superabundant  power  whose  high  privilege  con- 
sists in  the  possession  of  one  or  another  extraor- 
dinarily developed  faculty,  without  the  rest  of 
their  faculties  falling  short  of  the  average 
standard." 

Nordau  thinks  Goethe  was  sane,  and  he  tells 
us  that  the  poet,  had  he  "never  written  a  line  of 
verse,  would  all  the  same  have  remained  a  man  of 
the  world,  of  good  principles,  a  fine  art  connois- 
seur, a  judicious  collector,  a  keen  observer  of  na- 
ture." Lombroso  is  more  sweeping  and  unspar- 
ing. He  assures  us  that  many  of  Goethe's  poems 
were  composed  in  a  somnabulistic  state,  and  that 
the  poet  was  subject  to  hallucinations  of  a  start- 
ling and  confusing  nature.  No  man  of  genius 
slips  through  Lombroso's  fingers.  Tagged  and 
labelled,  from  Socrates  dancing  and  jumping 
in  the  street  without  reason,  to  Comte  who 
thought  himself  the  "High  Priest  of  Humanity," 
the  race  of  man  adorns  his  cabinet  of  psycholog- 
ical specimens.  0  lepidum  caput,  remains  there 
not  for  you  also,  Cesare  Lombroso,  some  gilded 
peg  upon  which  you  may  hang  your  own  rare  au- 
dacity, and  so  make  at  last  in  your  wonderful 
museum  the  shining  cluster  complete  .-^ 

Here  are  some  of  Lombroso's  mad  men:  Plato, 
Socrates,  Julius  Caesar,  Nero,  Septimus  Severus, 


158       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Mahomet,  Martin  Luther,  Columbus,  Dante, 
OHver  Cromwell,  Giordano  Bruno,  George  Fox, 
Bunyan,  Richelieu,  Peter  the  Great,  Fred- 
erick the  Great,  Napoleon,  Descartes,  Carlo 
Dolce,  INIichael  Angelo,  Petrarch,  Tasso,  Moliere, 
Alfieri,  Goethe,  Schiller,  Rossini,  Rousseau,  Shel- 
ley, Lord  Byron,  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  Robert 
Burns,  Coleridge,  Pope,  Victor  Hugo,  Charles 
Lamb,  Tolstoi,  Carlyle,  Talma,  Charles  Darwin, 
Abraham  Lincoln. 

These  were  all  crazy!  Heaven  grant  this  one 
prayer,  that  we  may  all  of  us  go  stark  mad,  and 
join  the  hallowed  fellowship  of  lunatics  so  di- 
vinely gifted.  They  were  not  wholly  sans  rime 
et  sans  raison,  but  upon  the  dazzling  splendor  of 
each  and  every  one  of  them,  the  all-discerning  eye 
of  Lombroso  discovered  the  plague  spot  of  de- 
generacy, and  restrained  by  no  foolish  sense  of 
delicacy,  his  unerring  and  remorseless  finger  is 
placed  upon  the  fell  contagion.  George  Sand  is 
not  of  this  illustrious  companionship.  Alas,  she 
was  sane !  We  have  it  from  Lombroso  himself 
that  she  was  "free  from  all  neurosis,"  which  is 
the  same  as  saying  that  she  was  not  a  woman  of 
genius.  To  be  sure,  she  had  her  seasons  of  mel- 
ancholy, and  mental  depression  was  the  sign  of 
degeneration  in  Abraham  Lincoln ;  but  she  at- 
tributed her  thoughtful  and  pensive  spirit  to  bile. 
Poor  Lincoln  was  so  far  gone  that  he  did  not 
know  what  was  the  matter  with  his  hepatiogastric 
contrivance.     It  was  the  French  novelist's  "bile" 


THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS  159 

that  caught  Lombroso's  eye.  That  the  gifted 
authoress  neither  romanced  nor  sentimentahzed 
about  her  depression  of  spirits,  but  seized  upon 
a  commonplace  and  vulgar  explanation  and  was 
satisfied  therewith,  was  a  sure  sign  of  mental 
health  and  vigor.  The  trite,  the  hackneyed,  the 
ordinary,  the  vulgar,  the  inferior — these  are  the 
elements  of  a  sound  and  well-balanced  mind. 

Just  here  a  word  with  regard  to  pessimism 
may  be  injected  without  injury  to  the  continuity 
of  our  paper.  Is  the  inscription  on  the  old  sun- 
dial on  the  Rhine  the  true  motto  of  a  strong  and 
far-seeing  life.-*  "I  note  none  but  the  cloudless 
hours,"  is  what  the  dial  said.  What  kind  of  a 
man  would  he  be  who  could  take  note  of  only  the 
cloudless  hours?  Day  and  night  have  equal  places 
in  the  economy  of  nature.  There  is  a  dark  side 
to  our  world.  Tooth  and  claw  are  as  real  as  are 
flowers  and  fruit.  The  Latin  ^^Memento  morV^  is 
as  wise  a  bit  of  counsel  as  is  the  more  agreeable 
^^Gedenke  zu  Lehen"  of  the  Germans.  Sorrow  and 
calamity  are  in  our  world,  and  we  cannot  escape 
them  by  declining  to  see  them.  But  if  we  will 
recognize  their  presence  and  square  our  living  to 
their  demands,  we  may  put  them  to  noble  use  in 
the  development  of  character  and  in  the  shaping 
of  material  circumstances.  The  loneliness  of  high 
thinking  furnishes  no  good  argument  against 
effort  to  reach  those  altitudes  upon  which  forever 
lies  repose.  Willful  sadness  may  be  wrong  and 
Matthew  Arnold's  "Empedocles  on  iEtna"  may  be 


160       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

decadent,  but  there  is  a  sadness  in  no  way  will- 
ful, and  that  is  so  far  from  being  wrong  that 
it  is  the  secret  of  much  power.  The  litera- 
ture of  power  is  seldom  optimistic.  Misery  and 
anguish  are  the  soil  in  which  it  finds  root.  Dark- 
ness and  even  sin  minister  to  its  life.  Some  of  the 
greatest  benefactors  of  mankind  have  been  ac- 
counted pessimists.  Dante  and  Michael  Angelo 
lived  somewhat  in  the  shadow.  Tolstoi  and  Car- 
lyle  were  never  very  light-hearted.  Abraham 
Lincoln  was  a  man  of  depressed  spirit  who  car- 
ried in  anguish  and  love  upon  his  great  heart  the 
distress  of  a  mighty  nation.  He  was  melancholy. 
In  his  nature  were  strangely  mingle.^  kindness 
and  loneliness.  His  temper  and  disposition  were 
such  as  to  occasion  in  Lombroso  very  decided  sus- 
picions with  regard  to  his  mental  condition. 

Max  Nordau  goes  farther,  and  finds  the  writ- 
ings of  revolutionists  attributable  to  degeneracy. 
He  does  not  tell  us  what  he  thinks  of  the  "Dec- 
laration of  Independence"  but  we  read  between 
the  lines,  and  since  it  was  undeniably  a  revolu- 
tionary document,  we  credit  him  with  discerning 
in  it  good  evidence  of  the  lunacy  of  Thomas 
Jefferson  and  the  renowned  but  misguided  men 
who  joined  him  in  signing  it.  Lincoln's  "Address 
at  Gettysburg"  was  due  to  hyperaesthesia,  but 
poor  man!  he  had  not  the  remotest  suspicion  of 
it.  He  thought  that  his  address  was  due  to 
patriotism,  when,  in  fact,  it  was  due  to  a  certain 
"ofFness  in  the  upper  region"  when  neither  Nor- 


THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS  161 

dau  nor  Lombroso  were  at  hand  to  set  him  right. 
There  is  a  sense  in  which  Lincoln  was  a  pessimist. 
Certainly  no  one  ever  accused  him  of  being  an 
optimist.  His  wit  and  laughter-provoking  sallies 
were  not  the  natural  offspring  of  a  merry  heart. 
Like  Liston,  Grimaldi  and  Carlini,  he  made  others 
laugh  while  his  own  heart  was  breaking  within 
him.  But  if  ever  there  was  in  any  heart  a  warm 
and  tender  love,  in  any  bosom  a  noble  purpose,  in 
any  life  brave,  wise  and  clear-sighted  action,  then 
Lincoln  was  of  all  men  most  sane. 

Schopenhauer  may  have  thought  this  "the 
worst  of  all  possible  worlds"  and  that  "sleep  is 
better  than  waking,  and  death  than  sleep,"  but 
the  German  thinker  is  by  no  means  the  only  in- 
terpreter of  life's  mystery  and  gloom.  Nor  are 
his  coadjutors,  Hartmann,  Mainlander  and 
Bohnsen,  the  only  high  priests  of  a  cult  not  with- 
out its  saints  and  martyrs.  No  man  who  is  alive 
to  the  world  as  it  is  can  remain  uninfluenced  by 
its  sore  distress.     He  may  sing  with  the  poet: 

"O  threats  of  hell  and  hopes  of  paradise! 
One  thing  at  least  is  certain — this  life  flies; 
One  thing  is  certain,  and  the  rest  is  lies; 
The  flower  that  once  has   bloomed  forever  dies," 

but  he  will  not  be  found  behind  other  men  in  his 
effort  to  render  the  life  that  flies  as  sweet  and 
noble  as  may  be  for  the  flower  that  dies.  The 
pessimist  has  his  place  among  men,  and  his  mis- 
sion to  the  age  and  to  his  race  is  by  no  means  an 
unworthy  one.     In  the    gloom    of    his    twilight 


162       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

things  are  visible  that  no  man  may  see  in  the 
meridian  splendor  of  a  noon-day  sun.  In  the 
shady  grove,  where  his  soul  delights  to  dwell,  are 
springs  of  strength  and  refreshment  that  are 
known  to  him  alone.  In  periods  of  great  politi- 
cal corruption,  of  dying  faith,  dissolving  empires, 
revolutions,  and  catastrophes,  he  comes  to  the 
front,  and  is  often  the  saviour  of  his  country. 
Not  in  such  periods  do  men  turn  to 

"Lighted  halls 
Crammed  full  of  fools  and  fiddles," 

but  to  those  quiet  and  shadowy  retreats  where  the 
pessimist  may  have  for  next-door  neighbor  De- 
spondency of  Spirit,  but  where  as  well  he  holds 
high  communion  with  nobler  ideals  than  haunt 
the  empty  brains  of  the  children  of  this  world. 
Men  like  Lombroso  may  count  all  the  sad-eyed 
prophets  of  the  soul  hopelessly  mad,  but  the  gen- 
erations of  men  rise  up  and  call  them  blessed. 

According  to  Lombroso,  genius  inclines  those 
who  possses  that  dangerous  gift  to  excessive  in- 
dulgence in  stimulants  and  narcotics.  He  tells 
us  that  "great  writers  who  have  been  under  the 
dominion  of  alcohol  have  a  style  peculiar  to 
themselves."  He  knows  just  what  that  style  is. 
It  is  characterized  by  deliberate  eroticism,  and 
"an  inequality  which  is  rather  grotesque  than 
beautiful."  It  unites  the  deepest  melancholy  with 
the  most  obscene  gaiety.  It  is  true  that  many 
great  men  and  a  few  great  women  have  been  in- 


THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS  163 

temperate.  Robert  Burns,  Cooke  the  actor, 
Thomas  Moore,  George  Moreland,  O'Carolan  the 
Irish  bard,  Edgar  A.  Poe  and  Hartley  Coleridge 
did  themselves  great  injury  by  their  fondness  for 
alcohol.  Randolph,  William  Wilberforce,  Dante, 
Gabriel  Rossetti,  Alfred  de  Musset,  Coleridge, 
Erskine  the  Enghsh  advocate.  Dr.  Hall  the  dis- 
tinguished English  clergyman,  Kemble  the  tra- 
gedian, and  Thomas  De  Quincey  were  addicted  to 
the  use  of  opium.  Newton  the  great  philosopher, 
Tennyson  the  poet,  Thomas  Carlyle,  General 
Grant,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  President  Mc- 
Kinley,  and  a  countless  host  of  the  sons  of 
genius  found  soothing  and  refreshment  in  to- 
bacco. Napoleon  I.  took  snuff,  as  did  also  Pius 
IX.  and  Leo  XIII.  Henry  Ward  Beecher  wanted 
strong  coffee.  Hoffman,  the  German  author, 
mingled  spirits  and  opium.  Mrs.  Jordan,  the 
Irish  actress,  dissolved  calves-foot  jelly  in  sherry. 
Kean,  the  actor,  wanted  beef  tea  with  cold  brandy. 
Charles  Lamb  was  not  satisfied  with  brandy,  but 
must  have  as  well  gin  and  tobacco.  Schiller  de- 
lighted in  the  smell  of  apples  when  the  fruit 
could  be  obtained ;  when  he  could  not  have  apples 
he  wanted  large  quantities  of  coffee  or  cham- 
pagne. Mrs.  Siddons  liked  porter.  Bishop 
Berkley  drank  large  quantities  of  tea.  Bayard 
Taylor  had,  wherever  he  went,  his  beer. 

It  is  freely  admitted  that  many  men  and 
women  of  genius  have  used  stimulants  and  nar- 
cotics— some  of  them  have  grossly  abused  intoxi- 


164       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

cants.  But  even  were  it  true  that  all  men  and 
women  of  genius  were  in  the  past  and  are  now 
intemperate,  still  how  small  must  be  the  number 
when  compared  with  the  countless  multitudes  of 
common-place  and  even  uneducated  persons  who 
once  were  or  now  are  intemperate.  If  the  posses- 
sion of  genius  inclines  a  man  to  the  indulgence 
of  appetite,  what  shall  be  said  of  the  greater  peril 
to  which  the  multitudes  of  our  race  who  have  no 
genius  are  exposed?  Certainly  the  vast  majority 
of  hard  drinkers,  in  whatever  age,  have  been 
wholly  innocent  of  anything  even  remotely  re- 
sembling genius.  We  do  not  believe  that  a  man 
of  genius  is  any  more  likely  to  have  delirium  tre- 
mens than  is  his  humdrum  and  common-place 
landlady.  Milton  was  a  great  poet,  but  he  never 
indulged,  so  far  as  we  know,  in  anything  more 
invigorating  than  light  wine  and  tobacco.  The 
American  authors,  Washington  Irving,  Longfel- 
low, Emerson  and  Whittler  must  have  had  some 
genius,  but  we  never  heard  it  whispered  that  they 
were  intemperate.  Henry  D.  Thoreau  was  a 
man  of  great  genius,  but  he  ate  no  flesh,  drank 
no  wine,  and  never  used  tobacco.  Robert  G. 
IngersoU,  Horace  Greeley  and  William  Cullen 
Bryant  were  men  of  genius,  but  who  ever  heard 
of  their  being  intoxicated.'*  Lombroso's  shot  fell 
wide  of  the  mark  when  he  associated  genius  with 
intemperance  and  labelled  them  both  insanity. 

Vagabondage  is  another  sign  of  genius,  accord- 
ing to  Lombroso.     He    mentions    Heine,  Alfieri, 


THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS  165 

Byron,  Burns,  Leopardi,  Tasso,  Goldsmith, 
Sterne,  Gautier,  Musset,  Lenau  and  Foscolo.  All 
these  immortal  ones  loved  wandering  and  could 
not  be  persuaded  to  remain  long  in  one  place. 
Meyerbeer  traveled  for  thirty  years,  composing 
the  while  his  beautiful  operas.  Wagner  jour- 
neyed on  foot  from  Riga  to  Paris.  Over  against 
Lombroso's  list  let  us  name  Goethe,  Tennyson, 
Emerson,  Thoreau  and  Whittier.  Goethe  wan- 
dered some  in  his  youth,  but  during  most  of  his 
life  remained  at  home  in  Weimar.  Tennyson 
lived  quietly  in  England.  Emerson  went  abroad 
twice,  but  was  never  a  wanderer,  Thoreau  went 
into  Canada  for  a  brief  season,  but  most  of  his 
life  was  spent  in  Concord.  Whittier  clung  to 
his  home  and  was  averse  to  travel.  These  were 
all  men  of  genius,  but  there  was  in  their  nature 
nothing  of  the  vagabond.  The  life  of  Thoreau 
was  marked  by  certain  eccentricities,  but  the  im- 
pulse to  rove  was  not  among  them.  The  fields 
and  forests  of  New  England  were  quite  to  his 
mind,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  he  ever  entertained 
the  thought  of  visiting  remote  lands,  or  even  re- 
mote parts  of  his  own  country. 

Sterility  is  pointed  out  by  our  author  as  an- 
other mark  of  genius.  Many  distinguished  men 
remain  bachelors,  and  among  those  who  marry, 
the  majority  have  no  children.  The  words  of 
Bacon  are  cited,  "The  noblest  works  and  founda- 
tions have  proceeded  from  childless  men,  which 
have  sought  to  express  the  images  of  their  minds, 


166       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

where  those  of  their  bodies  have  failed.     So  the 
care  of  posterity  is  most  in  them  that  have  no 
posterity."     Lombroso  is  strong  on  names,  and 
here  is  his  hst  of  persons  who  have  died  childless : 
Ben    Jonson,    Milton     (Lombroso    should    have 
known  that  Milton  had  daughters),  Otway,  Dry- 
den,  Rowe,  Addison,  Pope,  Swift,  Gay,  Johnson, 
Goldsmith,  Cowper,  Hobbes,  Camden — these  are 
all  Englishmen.      He  adds  the   names  of    other 
celibates — Kant,  Newton,  Pitt,  Fox,  Fontenelle, 
Beethoven,  Gassendi,  Galileo,    Descartes,    Locke, 
Spinoza,  Bayle,    Leibnitz,    Malebranche,    Gray, 
Dalton,  Hume,  Gibbon,  Macaulay,  Lamb,  Ben- 
tham,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Copernicus,  Reynolds, 
Handel,  Mendelssohn,  Meyerbeer,  Schopenhauer, 
Camoens,     Voltaire,     Chateaubriand,      Flaubert, 
Foscolo,  Alfieri,  Cavour,  Pellico,  Mazzini,  Aleardi, 
Guerrazzi,  Florence  Nightingale,  Catherine  Stan- 
ley, Gaetana  Agnesi,  and    Luigia    Laura  Bassi. 
Surely  he  has    given  us  a    formidable  array  of 
names.     The  one  weak    place  in  it    is,  however, 
quite  apparent.     Another  list  might  be  made  of 
distinguished  persons  who  have  married,  and  in 
that  list  would  be  found  many  who  had  children. 

The  following  persons  of  pronounced  genius 
were  not  celibates:  Chaucer,  Shakspeare,  Dante, 
Bunyan,  Milton,  Cervantes,  Sterne,  Goethe,  Schil- 
ler, Bishop  Berkeley,  Marzolo,  Edward  Young, 
Coleridge,  Addison,  Carlyle,  Landor,  Comte, 
Hay  don,  Ary  SchefFer,  Anna  Letitia  Barbauld, 
Dickens,  George  Sand,  Edgar  A.  Poe,  Shelley, 


THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS  167 

Bulwer  Lytton,  Rossetti.  The  following  persons 
were  not  only  not  celibates,  but  were  fathers: 
Oliver  Cromwell,  Edmund  Spenser,  Bismarck, 
James  Beattie,  De  Quincey,  Byron,  Burns,  Ten- 
nyson, Longfellow,  Emerson,  Hawthorne,  Bay- 
ard Taylor.  Lists  amount  to  little.  They  may 
be  so  constructed  as  to  favor  either  side.  Lom- 
broso's  lists  are  worthless,  and  the  lists  prepared 
by  the  writer  of  this  paper  are  of  no  greater 
value.  Genius  has  absolutely  nothing  to  do  with 
marriage,  and  Lombroso,  though  he  appears  to 
be  entirely  under  the  thumb  of  his  own  mistaken 
theories,  must  have  known  that  in  naming  steril- 
ity as  a  mark  of  genius  he  was  trifling  with  his 
readers. 

The  height  of  absurdity  is  reached  when 
Lombroso  makes  stammering  and  left-handedness 
to  be  signs  of  genius.  All  who  know  anything 
about  the  lives  of  distinguished  men  know  very 
well  that  the  vast  majority  of  men,  whether 
gifted  with  genius  or  not,  are  right-handed;  and 
that  while  a  few  persons  like  Erasmus,  Charles 
Lamb,  and  Mendelssohn  stammered,  the  number 
of  stammerers,  both  among  men  of  genius  and 
men  of  no  genius,  is  never  large. 

According  to  Lombroso  and  Max  Nordau, 
Henrik  Ibsen  and  Victor  Hugo  are  insane. 
Ibsen's  power  to  sketch  rapidly  and  with  great 
force  a  peculiar  situation  or  a  deep  emotion  is 
largely  due  to  a  neurosis,  the  fatal  tendency  of 
which  is  in  the  direction  of  complete  idiocy.  The 


168       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

high  poetical  endowments  of  Ibsen  are  conceded, 
but  "A  Doll's  House"  and  "The  Pillars  of  So- 
ciety" are  decadent  literature.  That  Ibsen's 
parents  were  of  a  religious  turn  of  mind  and  that 
the  poet  was  reared  in  a  religious  atmosphere  are 
responsible  for  much  of  his  morbid  moralizing 
and  for  his  later  dislike  for  established  religious 
life  and  usages.  His  free-thinking  is  the  decad- 
ent result  of  early  piety.  All  Ibsen's  characters 
live  in  a  psychological  atmosphere  and  in  each 
career  is  some  one  vice  or  defect,  the  result  of 
heredity  or  of  some  social  environment.  The  in- 
heritance is  always  evil  and  only  evil.  Yet  these 
characters  revolve  around  some  religious  idea. 
The  Christian  doctrine  of  the  Atonement,  in  one 
form  or  another,  is  never  lost  sight  of.  Nordau 
tells  us  that  "Ibsen's  personages  voluntarily  and 
joyfully  bear  the  cross  in  keeping  with  the  Chris- 
tian idea;  now  it  is  put  upon  the  shoulders  by 
force  or  artifice,  which  is,  as  theologians  would 
say,  a  diabolical  mockery  of  this  idea;  now  the 
sacrifice  for  another  is  sincere ;  now  mere  hypoc- 
risy." But  in  whatever  way  the  doctrine  of  the 
Atonement  is  introduced  it  becomes  the  centre  of 
thought — the  ever-recurring  motif. 

Now  all  this  to  a  mind  like  that  of  Lombroso 
evidences  mental  degeneration.  Religion  is  in 
itself  a  species  of  delusion.  The  most  sacred 
characters  from  our  Saviour  to  the  humblest  of 
his  followers  appear  to  him  to  be  victims  of  a 
more  or  less  disturbed  intellect. 


THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS  169 

He  tells  us  that  Ibsen  is  the  victim  of  three 
"Christo-dogmatic  obsessions" ;  these  are,  he  de- 
clares, original  sin,  confession,  and  self-sacrifice. 
They  constitute  a  mystic  circle  within  which  his 
troubled  mind  revolves.  Nordau,  who  reinforces 
Lombroso,  finds  Ibsen's  thought  chaotic,  lacking 
in  clearness  and  precision.  "Everything  floats 
and  undulates,  nebulous  and  amorphous,  as  in 
weak-brained  degenerates."  He  seems  to  preach 
free-love,  and  "his  eulogy  of  a  licentiousness  un- 
checked by  any  self-control,  regardless  of  con- 
tracts, laws  and  morality,  has  made  of  him  a 
'modern  spirit,'  in  the  eyes  of  Georg  Brandes  and 
similar  protectors  of  those  'youths  who  wish  to 
amuse  themselves  a  little.'  "  "Unchastity  in  a 
man  is  a  crime,  but  in  a  woman  it  is  permissible." 
Everywhere  is  unrestrained  individualism,  and  a 
mystico-religious  obsession  of  voluntary  self-sac- 
rifice for  others.  Nordau  tells  us  that  Ibsen  "seems 
to  exact  that  no  girl  should  marry  before  she  is 
fully  matured,  and  possesses  an  experience  of  life 
and  a  knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  men."  He 
represents  Ibsen  as  preaching  "experimental  mar- 
riage for  a  longer  or  shorter  period."  Surely  if 
Lombroso  and  Nordau  are  right,  Ibsen  is  a  raving 
maniac.  But  how  could  such  a  maniac  obtain  so 
large  a  following  and  win  such  unqualified  praise 
from  trained  and  judicious  critics.?  That  is  a 
question  Lombroso  does  not  deign  to  answer. 

Lombroso  calls  attention  to  Charles  Darwin. 
He  is  sure  the  great  naturalist  was  a  neuropath. 


170       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

For  twenty-four  years  he  was  an  Invalid.  He 
could  not  bear  heat  or  cold.  He  could  not  con- 
verse late  into  the  evening  without  insomnia.  He 
suffered  from  dyspepsia.  He  had  spinal  anaemia, 
which  suggested  to  Lombroso's  mind  epilepsy. 
During  the  later  part  of  his  life  he  was  able  to 
work  only  three  hours  a  day.  He  had  some  re- 
markable crotchets.  He  wrote  rough  drafts  of 
his  correspondence  upon  the  backs  of  the  proof- 
sheets  of  his  books.  He  indulged  himself  in  some 
strange  experiments,  such  as  having  a  bassoon 
played  close  to  the  cotyledons  of  a  plant.  Be- 
fore instituting  an  interesting  experiment  he  was 
absent-minded.  In  his  old  age  he  disliked  nov- 
elty. He  did  not  believe  in  hypnotism.  He  had 
some  difficulty  in  pronouncing  the  letter  w.  He 
had  a  short  nose  and  his  ears  were  largo  and  long. 
Such  is  Lombroso's  evidence  of  the  mental  un- 
soundness of  one  of  the  greatest,  if  not  the  great- 
est, of  all  the  naturalists  and  men  of  science  this 
world  has  ever  known.  Let  the  reader  run  his  eye 
over  the  evidence,  and  see  what  it  amounts  to. 
To  our  thinking  it  amounts  to  nothing.  Certainly 
something  more  than  chronic  invalidism  and  a  few 
eccentricities  are  required  to  make  out  a  case  of 
derangement.  Dryden's  couplet  is  as  true  as  it 
is  familiar: 

"Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied, 
And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide," 

but   it   is   a  near  alliance  only,   and  partitions, 


THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS  171 

though  often  thinner  than  we  sometimes  believe, 
do  still  divide  the  two. 

Lombroso  has  no  doubt  of  the  insanity  of  most 
of  the  Protestant  reformers.  Luther  was  very 
crazy.  Savonarola  was  stark  mad.  Napoleon  I. 
was  also  out  of  his  mind.  We  suppose  George 
Washington  escaped  a  place  among  lunatics  only 
through  some  inadvertence,  for  beyond  doubt  had 
Lombroso  thought  of  him  he  would  have  been 
caught  and  labelled  with  all  the  other  great  men 
of  every  age  and  land. 

Walt  Whitman  wrote  a  suspicious  kind  of 
poetry.  It  was  rhymeless.  Lombroso  speaks  of 
him  as  the  creator  of  that  kind  of  poetry,  but 
there  were  other  writers  who  made  use  of  it  before 
his  day.  Nordau  describes  him  as  a  vagabond,  a 
reprobate,  and  a  rake,  all  of  which  he  thinks 
might  be  summed  up  in  the  one  word  "genius." 
He  tells  us  that  Whitman's  poems  "contain  out- 
bursts of  erotomania  so  artlessly  shameless  that 
their  parallel  in  literature  could  hardly  be  found 
with  the  author's  name  attached."  Whitman  is 
"morally  insane,  and  incapable  of  distinguishing 
between  good  and  evil,  virtue  and  crime."  To 
prove  that  the  poet  was  a  megalomaniac  he  prints 
these  lines  which,  being  separated  from  their  con- 
text, actually  prove  nothing  but  the  mendacity 
of  Max  Nordau: 

"From  this  hour  I  decree  that  my  being  be  freed 
from  all  restraints  and  limits. 
I  go  where  I  will,  my  own  absolute  and  complete 
master. 


m       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

I  breathe  deeply  in  space.     The  east  and  the  west 

are  mine. 
Mine  all  the  north  and  the  south.     I  am  greater 

and  better  than  I  thought  myself. 
I  did  not  know  that  so  much  boundless  goodness 

was  in  me. 
Whoever  disowns  me  causes  me  no  annoyance. 
Whoever  recognizes  me  shall  be  blessed,  and  will 

bless  me." 

We  have  not  verified  these  lines.  We  let  them 
stand  as  they  are,  for  the  reason  that  they,  in 
truth,  prove  nothing  but  an  unworthy  spirit  in 
Nordau. 

In  speaking  of  Whitman's  patriotic  poems 
Nordau  is  unable  to  conceal  his  hatred  of  America 
and  of  American  institutions.  He  tells  us  that 
Whitman's  patriotic  poems  are  sycophantic  and 
corrupt.  They  glorify  the  "American  vote-buy- 
ing, official-bribing,  power-abusing,  dollar-de- 
mocracy. They  cringe  to  the  most  arrogant 
Yankee  conceit."  He  thinks  "Drum  Taps"  may 
be  described  as  "swaggering  bombast  and  stilted 
patter."  The  dishonesty  of  Nordau  is  made  ap- 
parent by  his  refusal  to  quote  the  best  lines  in 
"Drum  Taps" — such  lines,  for  instance,  as  we 
have  in  the  poem,  "O  Captain!  My  Captain!" 

We  suppose  no  one  will  dissent  from  the  opin- 
ion advanced  by  Lombroso  and  others  that  Ma- 
homet was  deranged,  and  that  his  hallucinations 
preceded  violent  epileptic  attacks  which  not  only 
convulsed  his  body,  but  affected  as  well  his  mind. 
Maudsley  says,  in  his  "Responsibility  in  Mental 
Diseases :" 


THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS  173 

"There  can  be  little,  if  any,  doubt  in  the  minds 
of  those  who  do  not  subscribe  to  that  faith  (Ma- 
hometanism),  that  an  epileptic  seizure  was  the  occa- 
sion of  Mahomet's  first  vision  and  revelation,  and 
that,  deceived  or  deceiving,  he  made  advantage  of 
his  distemper  to  beget  himself  the  reputation  of  a 
divine  authority.  The  character  of  his  visions  was 
exactly  of  that  kind  whicli  medical  experience 
shows  to  be  natural  to  epilepsy.  Similar  visions, 
which  are  believed  in  as  realities  and  truths  by 
those  who  have  them,  occur  not  infrequently  to  epi- 
leptic patients  confined  in  asylums.  For  mj^  part, 
I  would  as  soon  belive  that  there  was  deception  in 
the  trance  which  converted  Saul  the  persecutor  into 
Paul  the  Apostle,  as  believe  that  Mahomet  at  first 
doubted  the  reality  of  the  events  which  he  saw  in 
his  vision." 

Washington  Irving,  In  his  "Life  of  Mahomet," 
says: 

"He  would  be  seized  with  a  violent  trembling, 
followed  by  a  kind  of  swoon,  or  rather  convulsion, 
during  which  perspiration  would  stream  from  his 
forehead  in  the  coldest  weather;  he  would  lie  with 
his  eyes  closed,  foaming  at  the  mouth  and  bellowing 
like  a  young  camel.  Ayesha,  one  of  his  wives,  and 
Zaid,  one  of  his  disciples,  are  among  the  persons  cited 
as  testifying  to  that  effect.  They  considered  him  at 
such  times  as  under  the  mfluence  of  a  revelation.  He 
had  such  attacks,  however,  in  Mecca,  before  the 
Koran  was  revealed  to  him." 

Were  Mahomet  now  living,  he  would  be  con- 
fined in  an  asylum,  and  the  Koran  would  remain 
unrevealed.  We  shall  never  know  how  many 
revelations   as  wonderful  as   any  which  dawned 


174       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

upon  the  astonished  vision  of  Mahomet  and 
Swedenborg  are  prevented,  and  how  many  incipi- 
ent reUgions  are  nipped  in  the  bud  by  judicious 
doses  of  bromide  of  potassium,  belladonna,  and 
zinc,  by  confinement  in  the  wards  of  an  asylum, 
and  by  other  remedial  agents.  Certain  it  is  that 
asylums  are  thickly  settled  with  prophets,  saints, 
spiritual  healers,  and  mediums  of  one  kind  or 
another,  of  whose  visions  and  revelations  the 
world  is  deprived.  Yet  even  now,  and  in  our  own 
country,  there  are  some  who  escape  confinement 
and  openly  minister  to  the  deluded  multitudes 
that  follow  them.  The  founder  of  "Christian 
Science"  is  an  illustration  of  what  we  are  saying, 
as  was  also  the  late  John  Alexander  Dowie,  who 
founded  the  "Christian  Catholic  Church  in  Zion." 
Dowie  died  as  he  lived,  firm  in  the  behef  in  his 
divine  mission.  An  hour  before  his  death  it  was 
suggested  by  one  of  his  followers,  whose  faith 
failed  him,  that  a  physician  be  called.  The  aged 
leader  rose  on  his  couch,  and  gazing  fixedly  at 
the  watchers,  said :  "I  need  no  physician.  God  is 
all  in  all." 

Ann  Lee  was  an  epileptic,  and  her  revelations 
and  system  of  theology  are  the  outcome  of  in- 
sanity. She  is  described  as  "a  wild  creature  from 
birth,"  a  prey  to  hysteria  and  convulsions,  violent 
in  her  conduct,  ambitious  of  notice,  and  devoted 
to  the  lust  of  power. 

It  is  now  believed  by  many  that  Joseph  Smith, 
the  founder  of  Mormonism  and,  it  may  be,  the 


THE  MAN  OF  GENIUS  175 

author  of  the  "Book  of  Mormon,"  was  an  epi- 
leptic. Much  in  his  life  seems  to  accord  with  that 
theory.  The  character  of  his  work  and  his  own 
words  raise  the  suspicion  that  he  was  not  wholly 
in  his  right  mind.  He  was  vain,  boastful  and  li- 
centious, and  withal  very  emotional  and  religious. 
His  theology  is  a  purely  pagan  composite.  He 
believed  that  there  were  many  gods,  and  that  they 
were  polygamous  or  "sealed"  human  beings 
grown  divine.  That  the  great  God  over  all  gods 
was  once  a  man  was  with  him  a  foundation  doc- 
trine, for  he  held  that  it  was  man's  duty  and 
privilege  to  learn  how  to  become  divine.  He 
thought  that  God  the  Father  and  Jesus  Christ 
were  two  persons  in  the  same  sense  in  which  Mat- 
thew and  John  were  two  persons,  and  that  God 
and  Jesus  Christ  both  had  material  parts,  and 
that  they  had  wives  and  children.  The  grotesque 
and  heterogeneous  nature  of  his  creed  would  seem 
to  fit  in  with  a  theory  of  mental  unsoundness.  It 
must  also  be  remembered  that  his  ancestry  was 
somewhat  neurotic. 

Beyond  doubt  many  of  the  historic  personages 
brought  before  us  upon  the  pages  of  Lombroso's 
book,  "The  Man  of  Genius,"  were  more  or  less  de- 
ranged, but  the  sweeping  statement  that  all  men 
of  genius  are  neurotic  is  not  only  absurd  bat  in- 
sulting to  the  most  gifted  minds  our  world  has 
ever  known.  It  is  no  doubt  true  that  "great 
thinkers  and  poets  are  constitutionally  inclined 
to  melancholy,"  but  in  most  cases  it  is  because 


176       EXCL'ESIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

they  are  consrirutiouaily  sensitive  to  the  sorrow 
and  distress  of  the  world  and  iilive  to  the  mystery 
of  human  life.  For  the  same  reason  many  of 
them  incline  to  pessimism.  Aristotle  was  right 
•when,  many  centimes  ago,  he  declared  that  "men 
of  genius  are  likely  to  be  of  melancholy  tempera- 
ment," Men  of  genius  are  likely  to  be  as  well  men 
of  knowledj^e.  and  while  knowledge  means  usually 
increased  power,  it  does  not  always  brijig  with  it 
happiness.  There  is  a  sense  in  which  Goethe's 
words  are  true,  "'Every  increase  of  knowledge  is 
an  increase  of  sorrow."  "He  that  increaseth 
knowledge,  increaseth  sorrow."  exclaims  the  Sa- 
cred Writer,  How  often  we  see  an  ignoramus 
approach  a  serious  surgical  operation  with  no 
anxiety.  The  well  informed  man  discovers  reason 
for  apprehension  where  the  unenhghtened  rustic 
is  filled  with  calm  assurance.  The  courage  of 
youth  is,  for  the  most  part,  due  to  inexperience. 
The  vounff  man  is  certain  of  evervthincr  because 
he  knows  so  little.  It  is  true  that  "fools  rush  in 
where  angels  fear  to  tread."  Multitudes  of  earn- 
est souls  trace  their  religious  doubts  to  increase  of 
knowledge-  "If  only  I  knew  less,"  said  a  sorrow- 
ful sceptic,  **I  could  believe  more,  and  beheving 
more  I  should  be  a  stronger  and  a  happier  man." 
The  poet  who  said,  "There  is  always  in  the  eye 
of  genius  a  tear,"  was  not  far  out  of  the  way : 
but  the  shallow  author  of  that  unworthy  book, 
'*The  Man  of  Genius,"  only  smutched  a  subject 
of  which  he  was  incompetent  to  treat. 


THE  MAX  OF  GENIUS  177 

The  optimist  is  good  in  his  place,  but  as  much 
may  be  said  for  the  pessimist.     Not  always,  but 

often,  there  is  about  the  optimist  a  certain  vul- 
garity not  to  be  discovered  in  the  pessimist. 
There  is  an  offensive  smacking  of  the  lips  over 
the  good  things  of  this  life,  and  an  indifference  to 
the  troubles  of  others  that  not  infrequently  render 
the  optimist  somewhat  disgusting  to  men  of  finer 
nerve  and  kinder  heart.  We  know  httle  of  Lom- 
broso  as  a  man,  but  we  gather  from  hLs  sometimes 
blasphemous  and  always  humiliating  pages  a  be- 
lief that  he  is  an  optimist.  The  smack  of  the 
lips,  the  self-satisfaction,  and  the  vnlga.T  assur- 
ance are  in  evidence  upon  nearly  every  page.  His 
book  will  be  short-lived,  and  he  himself  will  be 
soon  forgotten,  but  the  men  and  women  of  genius 
who  are  insulted  in  nearly  every  line  he  has  writ- 
ten will  live  on  in  the  grateful  remembrance  of 
generations  yet  to  come. 


VIII 
THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK 


"I  have  thought  in  my  heart  that  it  were  a  singu- 
lar good  work  if  the  Lord  would  stirre  up  the 
hearts  of  some  or  other  of  his  people  in  England  to 
give  some  maintenance  toward  some  Schoole  or  Col- 
legiate exercise  this  way,  wherein  there  should  be 
Anatomies  and  other  instructions  that  way,  and 
where  there  might  be  some  recompence  given  to 
any  that  should  bring  in  any  vegetable  or  other 
thing  that  is  vertuous  in  the  way  of  Physick." 
— John  Eliot  in  a  Letter  to  Mr.  Shepherd. 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK 

IT  is  sometimes  represented  by  those  who  are 
unacquainted  with  the  facts  in  the  case  that 
physicians,  through  long  famiharity  with  pain 
and  distress,  come  in  time  to  lose  every  feeling  of 
compassion,  and  that  in  many  instances  they  ac- 
quire a  hard,  grasping  and  avaricious  disposition 
that  scruples  not  to  make  gain  out  of  the  physi- 
cal needs  and  mental  discomforts  of  a  sick  world. 
A  man  of  more  than  ordinary  intelligence  said  in 
the  presence  of  a  large  number  of  persons,  none 
of  whom  disputed  his  statement,  that  most  physi- 
cians were  so  intent  upon  a  fat  fee  that  they  had 
neither  time  nor  inclination  to  serve  men  of  mod- 
erate means.  He  went  on  to  explain  that  doctors, 
through  trading  in  sickness  and  death,  come  in 
the  course  of  a  few  years  of  professional  life  to 
kill  within  their  own  bosoms  the  lovely  and  gra- 
cious feeling  of  pity.  "They  view,"  said  he, 
"their  patients  as  cases  to  be  studied  and  ex- 
ploited. To  the  modern  doctor  Mrs.  Jones  is  in 
no  sense  of  the  word  Mrs.  Jones,  but  only  *case 
No.  520,'  and  his  interest  in  the  unfortunate  lady 
extends  no  further  than  the  amount  of  his  fee  and 
the  result  of  his  experiments," 

The  severe  accusation  is  not    wholly    without 

semblance  of  truth.     There  are  among  physicians 

some  black  sheep.     What  profession  is  without 

its  share  of  inky  wool?     Even  the  ministry  of 

181 


182      EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

religion  has  its  conspicuous  specimens  of  decadent 
divinity.  In  a  certain  sense  every  man,  no  mat- 
ter what  his  calling  in  life,  dwells  in  a  glass 
house.  In  most  cities,  and  in  some  small  villages, 
there  are  a  few  medical  men  who  are  "in  business" 
for  "revenue"  only;  and  there  are  hospitals  and 
asylums  in  which  carelessness  and  brutality  are 
not  unknown.  It  would  be  worse  than  foolish  to 
deny  that  some  unworthy  men  enter  the  profes- 
sion, and  that  certain  institutions  of  charity  and 
mercy  are  such  in  name  only.  But  a  mercenary 
spirit  is  by  no  means  common  among  medical  men. 
On  the  contrary,  the  average  doctor  is  proverbi- 
ally careless  in  money  matters.  His  absorption  in 
his  profession  seems  to  render  him  indifferent  to 
his  own  financial  interests.  I  know  of  a  doctor 
of  great  ability  and  large  practice  who  could 
never  have  collected  half  the  fees  due  him  had  not 
his  wife,  with  a  commendable  interest  in  good 
housekeeping,  made  out  the  bills  and  forwarded 
them  to  their  proper  destinations.  A  lady  said 
to  me:  "I  wish  the  doctor  would  give  me  his  bill. 
My  husband  has  three  times  asked  for  it  without 
result ;  I  am  told  that  he  never  sends  out  a  bill 
until  some  pressing  necessity  reminds  him  of  his 
account  book." 

The  "Aphorisms"  of  Hippocrates  reflect  a 
noble  and  beautiful  spirit,  but  it  cannot  be  for- 
gotten that  De  la  Mettrie,  the  physician  of  Fred- 
erick the  Great,  left  the  members  of  his  profession 
advice  of  the  most  selfish  and  comical  character. 
De  la  Mettrie  said : 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       183 

"Distrust  your  professional  brother — medicus 
medicum  odit.  If  you  are  in  a  fix  lay  the  respon- 
sibility on  the  backs  of  the  consultants.  Never  try 
an  active  remedy  on  a  person  of  high  position;  it 
is  better  that  a  great  lord  should  yield  to  human 
destiny,  even  prematurely,  than  that  the  doctor 
should  be  compromised.  In  the  case  of  consulta- 
tions try  to  arrive  on  the  scene  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
before  the  others,  in  order  that  you  may  see  the  pa- 
tient alone  and  gain  his  confidence  while  seeming  to 
study  his  disease.  Visit  the  patient  during  the  time 
the  remedy  is  displaying  its  effects ;  make  some 
small  change  in  the  mode  of  administration;  thus 
you  will  supplant  not  only  one  or  two  brother  prac- 
titioners, but  the  whole  faculty.  Take  care  to  stand 
well  with  the  surgeons  and  pay  court  to  the  apothe- 
caries. Do  not  give  medicines  to  those  who  do  not 
like  them.  In  the  case  of  the  others  order  only 
drugs  that  are  anodyne,  well  known,  and  have  not 
a  bad  taste.  Do  not  pay  too  many  visits ;  this 
would  gain  for  you  the  reputation  of  being  eager 
for  fees.  Unpunctuality  will  be  excused  if  you 
plead  the  number  of  people  you  have  to  see.  Al- 
ways have  the  air  of  being  busy.  If  you  are  asked 
out  to  dinner,  arrive  late  and  look  as  if  you  had 
been  hurrying,  and  arrange  that  you  shall  be  sent 
for  at  dessert.  If  women  discuss  the  causes  of  a 
disease,  do  not  contradict  them,  but  agree  with 
them.  If  women  advertise  you,  your  fortune  is 
made.  Above  all,  do  not  despise  the  support  of 
ladies'  maids  and  nurses." 

Yet  few  doctors  die  rich.  Not  more  than  forty 
per  cent,  of  all  the  3'oung  men  who  are  graduated 
from  medical  schools  ever  derive  from  their  pro- 
fession an  income  of  more  tlian  $1,000  a  year. 
There  are  not  a  few  physicians  in  rural  districts 


184.       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

who  never  earn  in  the  practice  of  medicine  more 
than  $500  a  year.  The  standard  of  education  is 
high,  and  the  examinations  are  increasingly  diffi- 
cult to  pass.  A  man  must  study  more  to  become 
a  good  physician  than  to  qualify  as  an  educated 
lawyer.  And  the  rewards  of  medical  service, 
viewed  from  a  commercial  perspective,  are  insig- 
nificant when  compared  with  the  golden  recom- 
pense that  awaits  a  successful  attorney.  Think 
of  the  "graft,"  "boodle,"  "perquisites"  and  other 
interesting  things  that  hang  directly  over  the 
heads  of  legally  educated  gentlemen.  Few  phy- 
sicians are  subjected  to  any  great  temptation 
from  what  are  facetiously  described  in  political 
journals  as  "plums."  The  worst  that  can  be  said 
of  a  doctor  is  that  he  seeks  fat  fees,  but  these 
are  never  so  corpulent  as  fat  offices. 

Dr.  Robert  C.  Myles,  a  New  York  physician  of 
distinction,  said  to  a  representative  of  the  New 
York  Herald: 

"The  number  of  able  young  physicians  in  this 
city  is  growing  rapidly.  The  city  is  full  of  young 
men  who  have  great  ability  and  natural  gifts.  They 
have  studied  hard  and  made  brilliant  records.  They 
will  be  heard  from  in  the  future.  Then  there  are 
able,  modest,  unassuming  men  with  offices  in  side 
streets  who  are  really  as  competent  as  others  widely 
known  and  of  assured  fame.  And  though  they  are 
equally  successful  in  the  same  classes  of  cases,  their 
fees  are  comparatively  small  and  their  meagre  in- 
comes altogether  out  of  proportion  to  the  high 
character  of  their  achievements.  So  it  is  evident 
that  no  one  can  say  just  what  the  physician's  fees 
shall  be." 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       185 

The  late  Sir  James  Paget  followed  the  after- 
histories  of  1,000  medical  students  in  Great  Brit- 
ain and  Ireland.  Of  these  23  achieved  distin- 
guished success,  66  considerable  success,  507  fair 
success,  124  very  limited  success,  41  died  while 
students,  87  died  within  twelve  years  of  com- 
mencing practice,  56  failed  entirely  in  the  pro- 
fession, and  96  abandoned  it  for  some  other  call- 
ing. At  a  later  date  Dr.  Squire  Sprigge  made  a 
somewhat  similar  study  of  250  students,  and  with 
somewhat  similar  results.  In  America  the  aver- 
ages are  better,  but  the  general  results  are  not 
very  different. 

Why  do  young  men  of  ability  make  choice  of 
a  profession  so  exacting  and  arduous,  and  offer- 
ing, in  a  large  proportion  of  cases,  such  meagre 
financial  returns.'*  There  can  be  but  one  answer 
to  that  question.  The  choice  is  made  from  a  love 
of  the  profession,  and  from  a  willingness,  born  of 
that  love,  to  incur  the  risks  and  to  face  the  hard- 
ships incident  to  a  medical  practice.  Young  men 
when  they  commence  the  study  of  the  healing  art 
know  many  of  the  difficulties  that  must  be  over- 
come. Their  professors,  as  if  to  discourage  any 
mercenary  straggler  who  may  have  unwittingly 
matriculated,  do  not  hesitate  to  refer  to  the  peril 
and  self-sacrifice  of  a  doctor's  life.  A  medical 
lecturer  once  in  my  hearing  thus  addressed  his 
class : 

"Young  gentlemen,  the  path  of  a  conscientious 
doctor  is  not  strewn  with  roses.     Much  of  his  prac- 


186       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

tice  is  night-work.  His  time  is  never  his  own. 
When  other  men  fly  from  the  sick  room  or  the  hos- 
pital, frightened  by  the  contagions  and  infections 
of  such  diseases  as  small-pox,  yellow  fever  and 
plague,  the  physician  must  remain  at  his  post  even 
at  the  risk  of  his  life.  A  thousand  political  honors 
and  emoluments  await  the  lawyer,  and  the  wealth 
of  the  Indies  knocks  at  the  successful  merchant's 
door,  but  hard  work,  personal  peril  and  moderate 
compensation  are  most  likely  the  only  results  you 
will  have  to  show  in  the  final  making  up  of  your  ac- 
count. Over  much  of  the  way  no  one  will  travel 
with  you  but  the  minister  of  religion  whose  work 
and  spirit  are  not  unlike  your  own.  Yet  if  you  love 
your  profession,  and  desire  to  give  yourself  to  its 
development  and  to  the  service  of  your  fellow  men, 
you  have  before  you  in  the  practice  of  medicine  a 
future  of  which  you  may  well  be  proud." 

Does  anyone  think  such  words  likely  to  attract 
to  the  study  of  medicine  men  of  mercenary  spirit  ? 
No,  that  spirit  is  far  from  common  among  medi- 
cal students  and  physicians.  It  never  was  com- 
mon among  them.  So  long  ago  as  the  time  of 
the  famous  Dr.  Mead  the  same  superiority  to  sor- 
did considerations  prevailed.  During  the  impris- 
onment of  Dr.  Friend,  who  in  1722  was  sent  to 
the  Tower  for  expressing  too  freely  his  mind  on 
matters  of  state,  his  colleague.  Dr.  Mead,  though 
of  an  entirely  different  political  persuasion,  cared 
for  his  medical  practice  without  compensation. 
When  Dr.  Friend  was  set  at  liberty  Dr.  Mead  pre- 
sented him  with  all  the  money  he  had  received 
from  his  patients — five  thousand  guineas. 

Well,  that  was  long  ago.?     Yes,  it  was  a  long 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       187 

time  ago  as  we  measure  the  years  of  a  life-time, 
but  the  same  spirit  is  still  active  in  the  profession. 
The  beautiful  kindness  of  Dr.  Michael  K.  War- 
ner, who  died  in  Baltimore,  Md.,  July  22,  1905, 
should  be  remembered.     The  bare  statement  of  it 
refutes  a  thousand  calumnies  and  gives  us,  as  I 
believe,  a  good  picture  of  the  true  spirit  of  a  large 
part  of  the  medical  profession.     Because  many  of 
Dr.  Warner's  patients  were  poor,  the  doctor,  just 
before  his  death,  destroyed  all  books  containing 
accounts  against  them.     This  he  did  to  make  it 
impossible  for  his  administrators  to  press  those 
who  were  unable  to  meet  without  great  personal 
sacrifice  the  just   demands  -that  might  be   made 
upon  them.     Dr.  Warner  said  that  his  patients 
knew  what  they  owed,  and  that  he  was  sure  they 
would,  most  of  them,  so  far  as  they  were  able,  pay 
his  heirs  when  he  was  gone.     It  would  be  impos- 
sible for  most  physicians  to  follow  Dr.  Warner's 
example,  and  destroy,    in  view  of    approaching 
death,  all  evidences  of  obligation ;  but  the  cultiva- 
tion of  Dr.  Warner's  spirit  is  practicable,  and  is, 
I  believe,  shared  today  by  an  increasingly  large 
body  of  noble  and  self-forgetting  men  in  the  pro- 
fession of  medicine. 

The  writer  of  this  paper  is  peculiarly  interested 
in  physicians  because,  though  he  has  been  all  his 
life  a  clergyman,  he  was  early  trained  for  their 
profession,  and  was  in  1870  graduated  from  the 
College  of  Physicians  and  Surgeons  in  the  City  of 
New  York.     During  three  busy  pastorates  he  has 


188       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

continued  to  follow  in  thought  and  reading  the 
marvelous  developments  of  the  healing  art.  There 
were  physicians  of  large  experience  and  ability  in 
the  three  churches  he  has  served — strong,  kind- 
hearted,  and  wise  men,  all  of  them,  of  whose  coun- 
sel he  was  always  glad  to  avail  himself.  They 
were,  without  a  single  exception,  good  to  the 
poor.  One  physician  connected  with  his  church 
in  Portland,  Oregon,  attended  without  compensa- 
tion a  number  of  indigent  families  in  the  parish. 
The  writer  once  said  to  him:  "You  are  a  busy 
man,  and  have  a  large  practice.  The  duties  of 
your  professorship  in  the  Medical  College  are  no 
light  matter.  You  hardly  do  yourself  justice  in 
giving  so  much  of  your  time  and  strength  to 
charity."  He  replied :  "You  respond  to  calls  out- 
side of  your  parish,  and  I  know  you  would  be 
ashamed  to  confine  your  sympathies  and  services 
to  the  single  church  of  which  you  are  the  pastor. 
Is,  then,  the  profession  of  medicine  so  ignoble  a 
thing  that  it  may  not  stand  side  by  side  with  that 
of  religion?" 

The  heroism  of  medical  men  is  astonishing 
when  one  considers  how  little  applause  it  wins. 
We  all  admire  the  brave  soldier  who  follows  his 
flag  Into  the  thickest  of  the  fight.  If  he  Is  dis- 
abled through  wounds  received  In  battle  how 
gladly  we  vote  him  a  pension.  But  the  daring  of 
the  doctor  Is  greater  than  that  of  the  soldier.  The 
latter  goes  Into  battle  to  the  sound  of  martial 
music,  surrounded  by  enthusiastic  comrades,  while 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       189 

the  physician,  alone  and  with  no  public  demon- 
stration of  approval,  enters  the  pest-house  and 
there  calmly  and  without  ostentation  ministers  to 
suffering  humanity.  The  soldier  is  not  rendered 
by  his  peculiar  training  more  sensitive  to  the 
perils  of  his  dangerous  profession.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  more  extensive  his  training  and  experi- 
ence, the  more  indifferent  he  becomes  to  danger. 
It  is  not  so  with  the  educated  physician.  To  his 
cultivated  mind  a  thousand  risks  in  the  matter  of 
contagion,  of  which  the  ordinary  man  knows  noth- 
ing, are  clear  and  distinct.  The  civilized  world 
was  moved  to  admiration  by  the  story  of  Father 
Damien's  courage  and  self-sacrifice.  The  priest 
went  to  live  with  lepers  on  the  Island  of  Molokai 
in  order  to  minister  to  them  in  spiritual  things. 
But  when  in  a  southern  country  I  visited  a  leper 
hospital  I  found  there,  hard  at  work  and  with  no 
thought  of  danger  or  of  disgust  at  the  loath- 
someness of  the  disease,  a  number  of  able  physi- 
cians and  efficient  nurses.  Brave,  patient,  self- 
sacrificing,  loyal  to  the  spirit  of  science,  those 
noble  men  and  women  were  working  day  and 
night  to  help  and  comfort  the  distressed. 

In  this  connection  it  is  interesting  to  notice  the 
two  widely  sundered  views  of  hospital-life  that 
have  found  melodious  expression  through  the  in- 
spired pens  of  two  women  of  wholly  dissimilar 
temperaments.  In  weird  lines  Rose  Terry  Cooke 
describes  the  death-fancies  of  an  old  sailor  who 
is  waiting  to  go  out  with  the  tide: 


190       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

IN    THE    HOSPITAL. 

How  the  wind  yells  on  the  Gulf  and  prairie ! 

How  it  rattles  in  the  windows  wide! 
And  the  rats  squeak  like  our  old  ship's  rigging; 

I  shall  die  with  the  turn  of  the  tide. 

I've  had  a  rough  life  on  the  ocean. 

And  a  tough  life  on  the  land; 
Now  I'm  like  a  broken  hulk  in  the  dockyard — 

I  can't  stir  foot  nor  hand. 

There   are  green  trees  in  the  Salem  graveyard. 
By  the  meeting  house  steps  they  grow; 

And  there  they  put  my  poor  old  mother, 
The  third  in  the  leeward  row. 

There's  the  low  red  house  on  the  corner, 
With  a  slant  roof  and  a  well-sweep  behind, 

And  yellow-headed  fennel  in  the  garden — 
How  I  see  it  when  I  go  blind ! 

I  wish  I  had  a  mug  of  cold  water 

From  the  bottom  of  that  old  curb  well, 

I  wish  my  mother's  face  was  here  alongside. 
While  i  hear  that  tolling  bell! 

There's  a  good  crop  of  corn  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  biggest  boy  ain't  there  to  hoe ; 

They'll  get  in  the  apples   and  the  pumpkins, 
But  I've  done  my  last  chores  below. 

Don't  you  hear  the  norther  risin',  doctor.'' 
How  it  yells  and  hollers,  far  and  wide ! 

And  the  moon's  a-shinin'  on  that  graveyard — 
Hold  on,   I'm  a-goin'   with  the  tide." 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       191 

With  different  spirit,  yet  with  like  genius, 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  tells  of  kindness  dis- 
covered where  kindness  is  not  always  found: 

KINDNESS    FIRST    KNOWN    IN    A    HOSPITAL. 

*The  place  seemed  new  and  strange  as  death. 
The  white  strait  bed,  with  others  strait  and  white. 
Like  graves  dug  side  by  side  at  measured  lengths, 
And  quiet  people  walking  in  and  out 
With  wonderful  low  voices  and  soft  steps. 
And  apparitional  equal  care  for  each, 
Astonished  her  with  order,  silence,  law: 
And  when  a  gentle  hand  held  out  a  cup. 
She  took  it  as  j^ou  do  at  sacrament. 
Half   awed,   half   melted — not   being   used,   indeed. 
To  so  much  love  as  makes  the  form  of  love 
And  courtesy  of  manners.     Delicate  drinks 
And  rare  white  bread,  to  which  some  dying  eyes 
Were  turned  in  observation,     O  my  God, 
How  sick  we  must  be  ere  we  make  men  just! 
I  think  it  frets  the  saints  in  heaven  to  see 
How  many  desolate  creatures  on  the  earth 
Have  learnt  the  simple  dues  of  fellowship 
And  social  comfort  in  a  hospital ! ' ' 

In  my  "Companionship  of  Books,"  1  recounted 
the  heroism  of  Dr.  Franz  Mueller,  of  Vienna,  who 
fell  a  victim  to  the  bubonic  plague  when  that  dis- 
ease was  first  under  bacteriological  investigation 
in  that  city  in  1897.  At  the  risk  of  tedious  repe- 
tition, let  me  say  that  Dr.  Mueller  contracted  the 
malady  from  the  bacilli  in  culture  tubes.  When 
he  became  certain  that  he  was  infected  he  imme- 
diately locked  himself  in  an    isolated    room  and 


192       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

posted  a  message  on  the  window-pane  reading 
tiius:  ''I  am  suffering  from  the  plague.  Please 
do  not  send  a  doctor  to  me,  as  in  any  event  my 
end  will  come  in  four  or  five  days." 

At  once  a  number  of  his  associates,  all  of  them 
young  physicians  with  much  to  live  for,  and  with 
full  knowledge  of  the  chances  to  which  they  would 
expose  themselves,  stepped  forward  and  not  only 
offered  their  services,  but,  in  some  cases,  begged 
to  be  sent  to  Dr.  Mueller.  The  patient  refused 
to  receive  them,  and  died  alone  within  the  time 
predicted.  He  wrote  a  farewell  letter  to  his 
parents,  placed  it  against  the  window,  so  that  it 
could  be  copied  from  the  outside,  and  then  burned 
the  original  with  his  own  hands,  fearful  that  it 
might  be  preserved  and  carry  out  the  mysterious 
and  deadly  germ.  It  is  possible  that  Dr.  Mueller 
might  have  been  saved  had  he  been  willing  to  per- 
mit his  fellow  physicians  to  encounter  the  great 
danger  they  would  have  faced  in  treating  him. 
To  my  thinking  the  heroism  of  Dr.  Mueller  and 
his  associate  physicians  was  much  greater  than 
that  required  for  a  feat  of  arms  on  the  field  of 
battle. 

I  am  aware  that  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  place 
over  against  what  has  been  said  the  actual  record 
of  enormous  medical  fees  paid  under  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances to  distinguished  physicians.  Every 
one  knows  that  there  have  been  some  medical  men 
of  large  means.  Our  fathers  used  to  read  fifty 
or  more  years  ago  a  delightful  little  book  called 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       193 

"The  Gold-Headed  Cane"  All  the  doctors  de- 
scribed in  that  book  were  men  of  the  noblest  qual- 
ity, and  they  were  also  men  of  large  fortunes. 
Sir  William  Gull  received,  it  is  reported,  for  treat- 
ing King  Edward  in  1871,  when  he  was  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  the  handsome  sum  of  ten  thou- 
sand pounds.  The  Vegetarian  is  authority  for 
the  statement  that  Sir  Morell  Mackenzie  received 
for  his  attendance  upon  the  late  Emperor  Fred- 
erick twenty  thousand  pounds.  The  doctors  who 
prescribed  for  Queen  Victoria  in  her  last  illness 
got  two  thousand  guineas  each.  Dr.  Lapponi  had 
for  removing  a  cyst  from  the  side  of  Leo  XIII.  a 
sum  that  would  be  in  the  money  of  our  country 
about  twenty-five  hundred  dollars.  Dr.  Dimsdale 
went  to  St.  Petersburgh  years  ago  to  vaccinate 
the  empress,  and  he  received  for  his  services  ten 
thousand  pounds  with  five  thousand  pounds  for 
traveling  expenses,  and  later  a  life  pension  of  five 
hundred  pounds  a  year.  Dr.  Lorenz,  of  Vienna, 
went  to  Chicago  to  operate  upon  a  child  who  had 
congenital  dislocation  of  the  hip.  He  had  for  his 
services  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  and  travel- 
ing expenses  for  himself  and  his  assistant. 

Mr.  D'Arcy  Power  in  discussing  the  "Fees  of 
Our  Ancestors"  reminds  his  readers  of  the  old- 
time  story  of  the  skillful  Democedes,  who  re- 
ceived from  Darius  Hystaspes  of  Susa  a  fee 
that  our  modern  surgeons  may  dream  of  in 
"the  first  sweet  sleep  of  the  night,"  but  that 
none  of  them  may  ever  hope  to  obtain  in  any- 


194       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

thing  more  substantial  than  a  dream.  Da~ 
rius  had  dislocated  his  foot  at  the  ankle- 
joint,  and  Democedes  was  called  in  after  the 
failure  of  an  Egyptian  surgeon.  His  treat- 
ment was  successful,  and  he  was  at  once  pre- 
sented with  two  golden  fetters,  in  delicate  allusion 
to  his  position.  Having  delighted  Darius  by  ask- 
ing him  "whether  he  meant  to  double  his  punish- 
ment, that  monarch  told  him  to  go  through  the 
harem  as  the  man  who  had  saved  the  king's  life. 
The  ladies  each  gave  him  a  golden  bowl  piled  up 
with  staters,  so  many  of  which  fell  on  the  floor 
that  the  slave  who  conducted  him  made  a  hand- 
some fortune  by  picking  them  up." 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  describe  other  large 
fees,  including  the  contested  one  of  ex-Queen 
Kilinakalani's  physician. 

All  these  fees,  with  the  single  exception  of  the 
one  received  b}^  Dr.  Lorenz,  were  paid  bv  royalty, 
and  were  in  reality  gifts  rather  than  fees.  The 
physicians  who  had  them  may  imagine  that  they 
were  in  return  for  services  rendered,  but,  in  truth, 
they  were  in  no  sense  a  quid  'pro  quo.  The  phy- 
sicians were  men  of  exceptional  skill,  and  in  treat- 
ing royalty  they  assumed  an  exceptional  respon- 
sibility ;  yet  men  of  even  their  unusual  ability 
could  expect  such  compensation  in  only  rare  in- 
stances. It  must  be  remembered  also  that  these 
fees  were  not  in  settlement  of  medical  bills  alone, 
but  covered  the  expense  of  long  journeys  and  the 
loss  to  private  practice  occasioned  by  protracted 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK        195 

absence  from  home.  In  the  case  of  Dr.  Lorenz 
we  have  a  scientific  man  of  world-wide  reputation 
crossing  the  ocean  to  treat  the  child  of  a  multi- 
millionaire who  could,  were  he  so  inclined,  and 
were  the  thing  permissible,  buy  out  half  a  dozen 
small  kingdoms  in  Europe  or  elsewhere.  And  it 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  Dr.  Lorenz  while  in 
this  country  treated  a  number  of  poor  persons 
without  compensation,  and  gave  demonstrations 
of  his  skill  in  hospitals  for  the  benefit  of  Ameri- 
can physicians. 

The  Bulletin  of  Pharmacy  has  this  witty  ac- 
count of  the  way  in  which  a  distinguished  sur- 
geon was  defrauded  out  of  a  fee  to  which  he  was 
entitled : 

"Sir  Morel  Mackenzie  once  received  a  dispatch 
from  Antwerp  asking  him  for  his  charges  for  a  cer- 
tain operation.  He  replied  £500,  and  was  told  to 
come  at  once.  When  he  stepped  upon  the  dock  he 
was  met  by  three  men  in  mourning,  who  informed 
him  sadly  that  he  had  come  too  late;  the  patient 
had  died  that  morning. 

'But,'  said  the  spokesman  of  the  party,  'we 
know  that  you  did  what  you  could,  and  we  do  not 
intend  that  you  shall  be  out  of  pocket  a  shilling. 
We  shall  pay  you  your  full  fee.'  And  they  did. 
'And  now,'  said  the  man,  'since  you  are  here,  what 
do  you  say  to  visiting  the  city  hospital  and  giving 
a  clinic  for  the  benefit  of  our  local  surgeons?  It 
is  not  often  they  have  an  opportunity  of  benefitting 
by  such  science  as  yours.' 

Sir  Morel  said  he  would  gladly  comply.  He 
went  to  the  hospital  and  performed  many  opera- 
tions, among  which  were  two  of  a  similar  nature  to 


196       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

that  for  which  he  had  been  called  over.  When  he 
had  finished  all  thanked  him  profusely.  On  the 
steamer  going  home  he  met  a  friend  who  had  a 
business  house  in  Antwerp. 

'Pretty  scurvy  trick  they  played  on  you.  Sir 
Morel.' 

'What  do  you  mean/  asked  the  surgeon. 

'Told  you  the  patient  died  before  you  arrived, 
didn't  they.''' 

•Yes.' 

"Lied.  You  operated  on  him  and  a  friend  with 
the  same  trouble  at  the  clinic.  Got  two  operations 
for  one  price.'  " 

Dr.  Murray,  of  New  York  City,  is  reported 
to  have  said  to  a  representative  of  the  press : 

"I  know  of  a  case  where  a  foreign  merchant  do- 
ing business  in  New  York  entered  a  leading  hos- 
pital of  this  city  as  a  poor  man.  He  was  operated 
on  for  appendicitis.  It  was  a  successful  operation 
and  the  man  speedily  recovered,  yet  he  paid  only 
the  hospital  ward  rate  of  ten  dollars  a  week,  and 
went  on  his  way  rejoicing.  It  was  afterward  dis- 
covered that  he  was  a  thriving  merchant  worth  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars." 

Whether  a  fee  is  large  or  small  must  depend 
upon  circumstances.  No  ordinary  patient  would 
be  willing  to  pay  one  hundred  dollars  to  a  physi- 
cian of  average  standing  in  his  profession,  nor, 
indeed,  would  he  willingly  pay  that  sum  to  a  phy- 
sician of  any  standing,  for  a  single  office  call ; 
but  Mr.  Armour,  Mr.  Astor,  or  Mr.  Carnegie 
might  be  ready  to  pay  that  sum  twice  over  to 
a  physician  of  exceptional  ability  for  less  time 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       197 

than  is  required  for  an  office  call.  It  is  not  a  ques- 
tion of  what  a  certain  doctor  could  collect  under 
the  law  from  either  of  the  above-named  gentle- 
men, but  it  is  a  question  of  that  doctor's  special 
worth  to  his  multi-millionaire  patient  under  excep- 
tional circumstances  at  a  given  time.  There  is 
no  good  reason  why  a  distinguished  physician 
should  refuse  a  large  fee,  but  if  he  makes  that  fee 
the  measure  of  his  usefulness  to  ordinary  men  and 
women  he  is  false  to  the  spirit  of  his  profession, 
and  may  be  accounted  selfish  and  mercenary. 
Medical  societies  have  been  from  time  immemorial 
pursuing  quacks  and  irregular  practitioners,  but 
to  my  thinking  no  quackery  is  deserving  of  so 
severe  a  censure  as  is  the  cold  and  selfish  temper 
of  indifference  to  the  sorrow  and  distress  of  man- 
kind when  lodged  in  the  heart  of  a  medical  man. 
The  physician,  like  the  minister  of  religion,  is 
something  more  than  a  business  man ;  and  he  can 
never  view  his  services  to  the  world  in  the  light 
of  mere  dollars  and  cents  without  debasing  him- 
self and  disgracing  his  profession. 

It  is  not  generally  known,  or,  at  least,  it  is  not 
generally  remembered,  that  medically  educated 
men  have  furnished  no  small  part  of  the  perma- 
nent literature  of  the  world.  Ficinus  gave  us  a 
Latin  version  of  Plato ;  Julius  Scaliger  was  a 
great  literary  critic;  Perrault  translated  Vitru- 
vius  and  lectured  on  geometry  and  architecture; 
Swammerdam  was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of 
Dutch  naturalists;  Sir  Thomas  Browne  will  be 


198       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

remembered  as  the  author  of  "Religio  Medici" 
and  the  "Treatise  on  Urn  Burial ;"  Schiller,  the 
great  German  poet,  was  educated  as  a  physician ; 
Akenside  was  not  only  a  doctor  but  a  famous 
English  poet ;  Armstrong  was  a  poet ;  Smollet 
gave  us  "Roderick  Random,"  "Peregrine  Pickle," 
and  "Humphry  Clinker;"  Goldsmith  was  a  de- 
lightful author;  Madden  gave  us  the  once  popu- 
lar "Travels  in  Turkey,  Egypt,  Nubia,  and  Pal- 
estine ;"  Camus  wrote  "La  Medicine  de  I'Esprite" 
and  "Abdeker,  or  the  Art  of  Cosmetics ;"  Valen- 
tine Mott's  "Travels  in  Europe  and  the  East"  de- 
lighted our  grandfathers ;  Draper  left  us  a  "His- 
tory of  the  Intellectual  Development  of  Europe ;" 
Huxley's  "Lay  Sermons"  are  well  worth  reading, 
and  many  a  year  will  go  by  before  the  essays, 
stories  and  poems  of  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
are  forgotten.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  name 
two  or  three  hundred  physicians  who  will  be  re- 
membered because  of  services  rendered  to  litera- 
ture. 

And  sometimes  literature,  which  has  been  so  en- 
riched by  the  genius  of  medical  men,  makes  com- 
pensation in  kind;  an  illustration  of  which  gen- 
erosity is  furnished  by  a  German  writer  in  the 
following  Latin  lines  in  memory  of  the  distin- 
guished scientist.  Dr.  Virchow: 

"Summo    cum    ingenio 
Morbos  illustravit; 
Explorando  mortuos 
Vivos  adiuvavit. 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       199 


Vitas  persecutus  est 

Intima  arcana 
Et  ubique  somnia 

Dissipavit  vana. 

'Omnis'  dixit  'cellula 

E  cellula  exorta' ; 
Turn  doctrinae  lucidae 

Patefacta  porta. 

Quae  reliquit  opera 

Perdiu  vigebunt 
Magna  haec  vestigia 

Non  evanescebunt." 

The  New  York  Medical    Journal    prints    its 
readers  this  translation : 

"With  sublimest  genius 

On  disease  light  giving, 
Through  the  study  of  the  dead 
Aided  he  the  hving. 

To  Life's  innermost  recess 

Hath  he  penetrated; 
Empty  dreams  on  every  hand 

Hath  he  dissipated. 

'Every  cell  from  cell  hath  sprung' — * 
Thus  he  spake,  and  straighway 

Illuminating  Science  saw 
Open  wide  her  gateway. 

So  the  works  that  he  hath  left 

Shall  endure  forever. 
And  his  mighty  footprints  be 

Obliterated  never." 


200       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Women  also  have  played  an  honorable  part  in 
the  practice  of  medicine.  Seven  hundred  years 
ago  a  woman  had  charge  of  the  department  of 
"Diseases  of  Women"  at  the  University  of  Sal- 
erno ;  and  the  chair  which  she  filled  with  such 
credit  to  herself  was  afterward  held  in  turn  by 
medical  women  of  trained  mind  and  large  experi- 
ence through  seven  professorships.  History  has 
preserved  the  names  of  such  distinguished  women 
as  Trotula,  the  noted  gynecologist ;  Abella,  the 
author  of  a  once  famous  work  on  "Melancholy"; 
Mercuriade,  a  celebrated  writer  on  medical 
themes,  and  a  surgeon  of  exceptional  ability ;  Re- 
becca Guarana,  a  distinguished  author  and  prac- 
titioner; Alessandra  Giliani,  the  famous  specialist 
in  anatomy  who  invented  a  new  method  of  prepar- 
ing anatomical  specimens.  Of  her  Dr.  James  J. 
Walsh  writes  in  the  third  volume  of  "Interna- 
tional Clinics"  (nineteenth  series),  recently  pub- 
lished in  Indianapolis : 

"She  would  cleanse  most  skillfully  the  smallest 
vein,  the  arteries,  all  the  ramifications  of  the  ves- 
sels, without  lacerating  or  dividing  them;  and  to 
prepare  them  for  demonstration  she  would  fill 
them  with  various  colored  liquids  which,  after  being 
driven  into  the  vessels,  would  harden  without  de- 
stroying the  vessels.  Again,  she  would  paint  these 
vessels  so  naturally  that,  added  to  the  wonderful 
explanations  and  teachings  of  the  master,  Mondino, 
they  brought  him  great  fame  and  credit." 

The  physician,  like  the  lawyer,  weighs  evi- 
dence, only  his  evidence  is  more  exact  than  that 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       201 

of  the  lawyer,  and  far  more  trustworthy.  It  is 
the  evidence  not  of  fallible  and  sometimes  dishon- 
est men,  but  of  impartial  and  remorseless  nature. 
The  statement  of  the  patient  goes  for  less  every 
year  with  the  trained  and  scientific  physician. 
The  medical  man  is  possessed  of  surer  means  of 
coming  at  the  exact  truth.  Less  and  less  he  relies 
upon  the  word  of  his  patient,  and  more  and  more 
he  trusts  his  own  observation,  his  delicately  ad- 
justed instruments,  and  his  careful  laboratory 
analysis.  It  used  to  be  said  that  medicine  could 
never  be  accounted  an  exact  science.  But  medi- 
cine is  rapidly  becoming  mathematical  in  its  pre- 
cision, and  every  year  it  is  harder  for  an  un- 
trained mind  to  keep  pace  with  its  swift  march. 
How  resolutely  the  medical  societies  fight 
quacks  and  empiricism.  If  they  would  only  give 
the  matter  due  consideration  the}'  would  see  that 
the  increasing  severity  in  the  standard  by  which 
the  physician  is  to  be  measured  is  largely  respon- 
sible for  the  increasing  army  of  quacks.  The  ex- 
actions of  legitimate  medicine  are  too  great  for 
the  limited  capacities  of  inferior  minds.  The  re- 
sult Is  that  such  minds  seek  easier  and  less  scien- 
tific channels.  Many  empirics  are  really  good 
phj'sicians  up  to  a  certain  point,  but  beyond  that 
point  they  cannot  go.  And  it  is  just  as  true  that 
many  proprietary  medicines  are  regular  prescrip- 
tions such  as  physicians  commonly  employ  put 
up  in  a  more  convenient  and  agreeable  form.  If 
medicine  continues  to  advance  in  the  future  as 


202       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

rapidly  as  it  has  in  the  last  half  century,  no  sin- 
gle mind  will  be  able  to  qualify  in  the  profession 
as  an  entirety.  All  physicians  will  become  spe- 
cialists, and  the  general  family  practitioner  will 
disappear. 

It  is  not  always  an  easy  thing  to  distinguish 
the  honest  physician  from  his  cousin-german,  the 
quack.  The  two  have  points  of  resemblance  that 
are  very  confusing  to  the  unenlightened  non-pro- 
fessional mind.  George  Washington  had  in  his 
last  illness  the  services  of  several  medical  gentle- 
men who  were  regarded  as  the  ablest  practitioners 
at  the  time  in  the  country ;  and  yet  in  1800,  about 
eight  years  after  the  death  of  Washington,  Dr. 
Dick  and  his  associate  medical  brother  signed  the 
following  statement  which  was  published  in  the 
Medical  Repository: 

"Some  time  on  Friday,  the  night  of  December 
13th,  General  Washington  was  attacked  with  an 
inflammatory  affection  of  the  upper  part  of  the 
windpipe,  called  in  technical  language  cynanche 
trachealis.  The  disease  commenced  with  a  violent 
ague  accompanied  with  some  pain  in  the  upper  and 
fore  part  of  the  throat,  a  sense  of  stricture,  a 
cough,  and  a  difficult,  rather  than  a  painful,  deglu- 
tition. The  necessity  of  blood-letting  suggested  it- 
self to  the  General,  and  he  procured  a  bleeder  in 
the  neighborhood,  who  took  from  his  arm  in  the 
night  twelve  or  fourteen  ounces  of  blood.  He  would 
not  by  any  means  be  prevailed  upon  by  the  family 
to  send  for  the  attending  physician  until  the  fol- 
lowing morning;  the  physician  arrived  at  Mount 
Vernon   about    eleven   o'clock   on   Saturday.      Dis- 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       203 

covering  the  case  to  be  highly  alarming,  and  fore- 
seeing the  fatal  tendency  of  the  disease,  two  con- 
sulting physicians  were  immediately  sent  for.  In 
the  interim  were  em,ployed  two  copious  bleedings,  a 
blister  was  applied  to  the  part  aifected,  two  mod- 
erate doses  of  calomel  were  given,  and  an  injection 
■was  administered,  which  operated  on  the  lower  in- 
testines, but  all  without  any  perceptible  advantage, 
the  respiration  becoming  still  more  difficult  and  dis- 
tressing. Upon  the  arrival  of  the  first  of  the  con- 
sulting physicians  it  was  agreed  that,  as  yet  there 
were  no  signs  of  accumulation  in  the  bronchial  ves- 
sels of  the  lungs,  to  try  the  result  of  another  bleed- 
ing. When  about  thirty-two  ounces  of  blood  were 
drawn  without  the  smallest  apparent  alleviation  of 
the  disease,  vapors  of  vinegar  and  water  were  fre- 
quently inhaled,  ten  grains  of  calomel  were  given, 
succeeded  by  repeated  doses  of  emetic  tartar, 
amounting  in  all  to  five  or  six  grains,  with  no  other 
effect  than  a  copious  discharge  from  the  bowels. 
The  powers  of  life  were  now  manifestly  yielding 
to  the  force  of  the  disorder,  respiration  grew  more 
and  more  contracted  and  imperfect,  till  half  past 
eleven  o'clock  on  Saturday  night,  when  retaining 
the  full  possession  of  his  intellect  he  expired  with- 
out a  struggle. 

Several  hours  before  his  decease,  after  repeated 
efforts  to  be  understood,  he  succeeded  in  expressing 
a  desire  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  die  without 
interruption. 

(Signed)       James  Craik,  Att.  Phys. 

Elisha  C.  Dick,  Cons.  Phys." 

The  Medical  Record  for  December  29th,  1900, 
has  this  to  say  of  the  treatment  which  Washing- 
ton received  at  the  hands  of  two  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished physicians  of  the  day: 


204       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

"The  treatment  of  an  old  man,  sick  with  a  dis- 
ease very  exhausting  to  vitality,  and  so  severe  that 
the  illness  lasted  but  twenty-four  hours,  consisted 
in  the  abstraction  of  between  two  and  three  quarts 
of  blood,  the  administration  of  about  gr.  xx.  of  cal- 
omel and  gr.  vi.  of  tartar  emetic,  an  injection,  with 
external  applications  of  a  blister — and  a  pressure 
of  the  hand.  This  treatment  administered  to  a  well 
man  in  so  short  a  time  would  go  far  toward  prepar- 
ing him  for  his  last  journey. 

The  repeated  regretful  statements  of  the  physi- 
cians that  they  noted  no  benefit  from  their  treat- 
ment, with  continual  repetition  of  the  unsatisfac- 
tory means  of  cure  already  employed,  and  their  ap- 
parent inability  to  suggest  others,  and  the  last  re- 
quest of  General  Washington  that  he  might  be  al- 
lowed to  'die  without  interruption'  have  their 
pathetic  side.  Brandy  was  surely  in  common  use  at 
the  time,  and  no  doubt  'in  the  house.'  Peruvian 
bark,  iron,  and  digitalis  were  well-known  drugs  in 
the  materia  medica  of  1800,  but  there  is  no  record 
of  their  use.  The  almshouse  patient  today  has 
more  rational  treatment  than  the  ex-president  of 
the  United  States  had  in  1800." 

Will  some  one  tell  us  how  we  are  to  distinguish 
the  able  physician  from  the  untutored  empiric  on 
one  hand,  and  from  the  stupid  servant  of  habit 
following  his  routine  practice  on  the  other.?  We 
are  reminded  of  old  Dr.  Samuel  Garth,  who  wrote 
the  once  famous  "Dispensary,"  and  who  was 
knighted  by  George  I.  When  Garth  saw  his  phy- 
sicians consulting  together  just  before  his  death, 
he  lifted  himself  in  bed  and  said  with  some  effort, 
"Dear  gentlemen,  let  me  die  a  natural  death." 
Washington,  it  would  seem,  did  not  die  a  natural 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       205 

death.  He  escaped  powder  and  sword,  only  to 
fall  at  last  before  the  deadly  lancet  of  the  regular 
practitioner. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  the  popularity  of 
the  physician  must  always  depend  upon  the  suc- 
cess of  his  treatment.  He  may  be  a  very  wise 
man,  but  if  his  patients  die  he  might  as  well  be 
an  uneducated  quack  so  far  as  any  regard  for  his 
professional  services  is  concerned.  And  if  he  suc- 
ceeds, the  great  world  of  suffering  men  and 
women  will  not  stop  to  enquire  into  his  scientific 
attainments,  nor  will  they  ask  if  he  is  a  member 
in  "good  and  regular  standing"  in  some  accred- 
ited medical  society.  The  story  is  that  when 
Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  Grand  Duke  of  Tus- 
cany, died,  the  patient's  friends  caught  the  fa- 
mous physician  from  Padua  who  had  failed  to 
cure  the  great  man,  and  threw  him  down  the  well 
in  the  quadrangle.  We  do  not  throw  unsuccess- 
ful doctors  down  wells  in  these  days,  but  we  cover 
them  with  abuse,  and  in  some  cases  we  prosecute 
them  for  malpractice.  Not  many  years  ago  a 
ph^^sician  in  one  of  our  western  cities,  having 
failed  to  cure  the  mayor,  found  posted  upon  his 
office  door  a  notice  to  quit  the  place  under  pen- 
alty of  being  shot. 

The  government  of  the  United  States,  in  1864, 
sent  Dr.  Samuel  A.  Mudd  to  the  Dry  Tortugas 
for  setting  the  broken  leg  of  John  Wilkes  Booth, 
the  assassin  of  President  Lincoln.  Booth  in  his 
flight  from  Washington  after  shooting  the  Presi- 


206       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

dent  stopped  at  Dr.  IMudd's  house  to  have  his  leg 
cared  for ;  and  it  was  claimed  by  the  government, 
at  the  time  of  the  trial,  that  Dr.  Mudd  knew  who 
his  patient  was,  and  how  he  came  by  the  broken 
leg;  and  that,  in  setting  the  bone,  he  practically 
assisted  him  in  his  flight.  It  always  seemed  to 
me  that  Dr.  Mudd  did  nothing  more  than  his  duty 
as  a  surgeon,  and  that  his  conviction  and  punish- 
ment were  grossly  unjust.  Dr.  Mudd  insisted 
that  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  rendering  medi- 
cal assistance  to  Booth,  and  that  at  the  time  he 
had  not  heard  of  the  assassination  of  Lincoln. 
But  even  supposing  that  Dr.  Mudd  did  know  that 
he  was  treating  the  assassin  of  President  Lincoln, 
still,  to  my  thinking,  he  was  doing  only  his  duty 
as  a  medical  man.  No  physician  considers  it 
necessary  to  enquire  into  the  moral  character  of 
his  patient  before  rendering  medical  or  surgical 
aid.  Were  I  in  the  practice  of  medicine  I  would 
set  the  broken  leg  of  a  thief,  a  murderer  or  an 
assassin  as  conscientiously  as  I  would  that  of  the 
most  godly  minister  of  the  Gospel. 

I  quite  approve  the  conduct  of  a  doctor  in  a 
southern  city  who  after  shooting  a  burglar  who 
had  entered  his  house  in  the  night  immediately  set 
to  work  to  staunch  the  flow  of  blood  and  save  the 
life  of  the  miserable  man.  There  is  a  curious 
storj',  the  truth  of  which  I  do  not  know,  of  a  phy- 
sician who  saved  a  man  who  had  been  hung  for 
murder.  The  supposed  dead  body  was  conveyed 
to  the  physician's  office  where  the  resuscitation 
took  place. 


THE  PHYSICL\N  AND  HIS  WORK       207 

The  murderer,  assisted  by  his  friends,  made 
good  his  escape,  but  the  doctor  was  arrested  for 
interfering  with  the  execution  of  the  law.  The 
jur}-  acquitted  him  upon  the  ground  that  he  did 
his  duty  as  a  physician.  He  was  under  no  obli- 
gation to  enquire  how  the  patient  came  to  be  in 
need  of  his  services ;  nor  was  he  required  by  any 
law  to  assist  directly  or  indirectly  the  executioner, 
who  should  have  known  that  the  man  whose  life 
he  thought  he  had  taken  was  not  dead.  It  is 
the  duty  of  the  medical  man  to  preserve  and  not 
to  destroy  life;  when  life  must  be  taken,  as  in 
obstetric  cases  calling  for  the  sacrifice  of  the  child 
in  order  to  save  the  mother,  the  physician  kills 
only  to  preserve  a  still  more  valuable  life. 

It  was  a  law  in  ancient  Egypt  that  the  physi- 
cian was  to  take  charge  of  his  patient  for  the  first 
three  days  at  the  patient's  own  risk  and  cost, 
but  if  after  three  days  the  patient  was  still  sick 
the  unfortunate  doctor  must  continue  the  treat- 
ment without  further  compensation.  It  is  re- 
corded that  on  the  third  day  the  apprehensive 
doctor  was  In  the  habit  of  prescribing  an  imme- 
diate journey  to  the  seacoast,  the  mountains,  or 
the  springs.  The  wealthy  invalid  would  close  his 
house  in  Memphis,  and  engage  a  camel  to  con- 
vey him  to  Faioum  In  the  desert  or  to  Alexandria 
on  the  IMediterranean.  The  old  law  is  gone  the 
way  of  all  laws,  but  the  Faioum  and  Alexandria 
of  today  are  spelled  "Newport"  and  "Saratoga." 


208       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Plato  said,  in  his  "Republic,"  "Phy^cians  are 
the  only  men  who  may  lie  at  pleasure,  since  our 
health  depends  upon  the  vanity  and  falsity  of 
their  promises."  Plato  was  a  wise  philosopher 
who  knew  well  the  medical  gentlemen  of  his  day. 
It  is  not  unlikely  that  some  one  or  more  of  them 
had  posted  him  off  to  a  well-nigh  impossible  place 
on  the  edge  of  civilization  for  the  benefit  of  his 
health.  If  so,  he  must  have  improved,  for  he 
had  a  soft  spot  in  his  heathen  heart  for  the  keen- 
sighted  disciples  of  old  Father  ^Esculapius. 
Plato  thought  a  good  physician  might  lie  with- 
out guilt  if  in  his  opinion  a  lie  was  what  the  pa- 
tient most  needed.  He  would  have  put  lies  of 
various  kinds  into  the  pharmacopjela,  for  to  him 
the}^  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  the  great  body  of 
Materia  Medica.  Why  swallow  a  nauseous  drug 
when  a  delicious  little  sugar-coated  lie  would  do 
just  as  well.''  What  harm  could  come  of  saying, 
*'You  are  very  much  better  than  you  were  j^es- 
terday"  ?  A  grain  or  two  of  hope  might  be  good 
for  a  patient  even  if  he  were  actually  in  articulo 
mortis.  The  doctor  is  engaged  to  cure  the  sick 
man,  and  he  must  use  such  remedial  agents  as 
are  adapted  to  the  case.  Hope  has  an  immense 
therapeutic  value.  Why  not  use  it?  Dear  old 
Plato,  you  lived  before  religious  casuists  quib- 
bled !  You  had  a  warm  heart  and  good  red  blood 
under  j^our  pagan  ribs!  So  have  also  the  doc- 
tors of  the  twentieth  century.  Hope  is  in  the 
pharmacopasia,  and  liberal  doses  (quantum  suf- 
ficit)  are  good  for  the  patient. 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       209 

There  is  certainly  nothing  in  sickness  and 
morbid  conditions  of  either  body  or  mind  to  at- 
tract the  poet's  fancy  or  to  allure  the  lovers 
of  beauty.  On  the  contrary,  the  theory  and 
practice  of  medicine  is  repellent  to  the  artistic 
temperament,  and  in  some  cases  actually  disgust- 
ing. Yet  the  poet  has  not  allowed  the  sad  ail- 
ments that  our  flesh  is  heir  to  in  this  sick  and 
sorry  world  to  go  wholly  uncelebrated.  Some 
diseases  have  been  so  minutely  and  circumstan- 
tially described  in  verse  that  no  one  educated  in 
medicine  could  fail  of  knowing  at  once  the  na- 
ture of  the  disorder.  Henry  Kirke  White,  who 
himself  died  of  tuberculosis  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  has  left  us  a  "Sonnet  to  Consump- 
tion" which  is  greatly  admired,  and  which  is  here 
reproduced : 

"Gently,  most  gently,  on  thy  victim's  head. 

Consumption,    lay   thine   hand ! — let   me   decay 
Like  the  expiring  lamp,  unseen,  away. 

And  softly  go  to  slumber  with  the  dead. 

And  if  'tis  true  what  holy  men  have  said. 
That  strains  angelic  oft  foretell  the  day 
Of  death  to  those  good  men  who  fall  thy  prey, 

O  let  the  aerial  music  round  my  bed, 

Dissolving  sad  in  dying  symphony. 

Whisper  the  solemn  warning  in  mine  ear; 

That  I  may  bid  my  weeping  friends  good-by 
Ere  I  depart  upon  my  journey  drear: 

And,  smiling  faintly  on  the  painful  past. 

Compose  my  decent  head,  and  breathe  my  last." 

This  same  English  poet  wrote  the  following 
lines  on  the  "Prospect  of  Death" : 


210       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

"On  my  bed,  in  wakeful  restlessness, 
I  turn  me  wearisome;  while  all  around. 
All,  all,  save  me,  sink  in  f orgetfulness ; 
I  only  wake  to  watch  the  sickly  taper 
Which  lights   me  to  my  tomb. — Yes,  'tis  the  hand 
Of  Death  I  feel  press  heavy  on  my  vitals. 
Slow  sapping  the  warm  current  of  existence. 
My  moments  now  are  few — the  sand  of  life 
Ebbs  fastly  to  its  finish.     Yet  a  little. 
And  the  last  fleeting  particle  will  fall. 
Silent,  unseen,  unnoticed,  unlamented. 
Come  then,  sad  Thought,  and  let  us  meditate 
While  meditate  we  may." 

What  can  be  more    beautiful    than  Milton's 
description  of  his  own  blindness: 

"Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  ev'n  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose. 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine; 
But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark 
Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 
Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 
Presented  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  nature's  works,  to  me  expunged  and  rased. 
And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out. 
So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  light, 
Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 
Irradiate;  there  plant  eyes,  all  mist   from  thence 
Purge  and  disperse." 

Sbalvspcarc  had  venesection  or  phlebotomy  in 
view  when  he  wrote  "Love's  Labor's  Lost": 

"A  fever  in  your  blood!     Why,  then  incision 
Would  let  her  out  in  saucers." 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  WORK       211 

He  had  rigor  mortis  in  mind  when  he  wrote  in 
"Romeo  and  Juliet": 

"Alas !  she's  cold ; 
Her  blood  is  settled;  and  licr  joints  are  stiff; 
Life  and  those  lips  have  long  been  separated." 

Cowper  wrote  stanzas  which  he  subjoined 
yearly  to  the  Bill  of  Mortality  of  the  Parish  of 
All  Saints  for  six  years.  Armstrong,  who  was 
himself  both  physician  and  poet,  left  the  world 
a  long  and  dull  poem  on  "The  Art  of  Preserving 
Health,"  and  in  it  are  a  number  of  subdivisions 
which  treat  of  air,  diet,  exercise,  and  the  pas- 
sions.   He  assures  us  that 

"Music  exalts  each  joy,  allays  each  grief. 
Expels  diseases,  softens  every  pain, 
Subdues  the  rage  of  poison,  and  the  plague; 
And  hence  the  wise  of  ancient  days  adored 
One  power  of  physic,  melody,  and  song." 


IX 

SHAKSPEARE'S  BONES 


"History  preserves  only  the  fleshless  bones 
Of  what  we  were;  and  by  the  mocking  skull 
The  would-be  wise  pretend  to  guess  the  features. 
Without  the  roundness  and  the  glow  of  life. 
How  hideous  is  the  skeleton." 

— Bulwer. 


/ 


SHAKSPEARE'S  BONES 

STRATFORD-UPON-AVON  has  become 
one  of  the  most  famous  of  all  the  many 
famous  towns  of  England  through  no  en- 
terprise of  its  citizens  and  through  no  attractive- 
ness of  surrounding  scenery,  though,  in  truth, 
the  winding  and  graceful  river  and  the  verdure- 
clad  and  beautiful  hillsides  are  worth  a  long  jour- 
ney to  behold.  The  world's  interest  in  Stratford 
(and  all  the  world  has  an  increasingly  great  in- 
terest in  that  quaint  and  sleepy  little  collection 
of  old-fashioned  houses  and  streets  bare  of 
adornment)  gathers  about  and  centers  in  its 
Shakspeare  associations.  The  birth-place,  the 
school,  and  a  few  other  spots  closely  connected 
with  the  life  of  the  great  dramatist  attract  every 
year  thousands  of  pilgrims,  but  the  supreme  cen- 
ter of  absorbing  interest  is  the  tomb  of  the 
Chancel  of  Holy  Trinity.  Here  as  nowhere  else 
is  entrenched  the  great  Shakspeare-myth  that  in- 
creases in  authority  and  importance  with  every 
flying  year.  Do  not  for  one  moment  imagine  that 
I  question,  much  less  that  I  openly  deny,  that 
there  once  lived  that  "sweet  swan  of  Avon"  who 
is  described  as  having  "small  Latin  and  less 
Greek,"  but  who,  nevertheless,  made  those  im- 
mortal plays  that  this  world  of  ours  will  never 
allow  to  die,  and  the  superb  glory  of  which  the 
indefatigable  but  blind  disciples  of  Bacon  will 
215 


216       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOA^R 

never  with  all  their  toil  be  able  to  capture  for 
their  great  master.  Much  or  little  Latin  and 
Greek,  he  knew  English,  and  wrote  "The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,"  "Julius  Cssar,"  "Hamlet," 
and  all  the  rest.  In  Stratford  he  lived,  and  there 
he  died,  and  there  also,  so  far  as  any  man's 
knowledge  extends,  his  bones  were  entombed  be- 
neath those  four  lines  of  astonishing  doggerel 
that  every  school-boy  knows  by  heart.  For  what 
may  be  called  the  "Bacon  Theory"  I  never  enter- 
tained even  the  most  remote  regard.  I  protect 
mj'  use  of  the  term  "Shakspeare-myth"  by  a 
frank  avowal  of  my  entire  want  of  sympathy  with 
those  who  are  endeavoring  to  deprive  Shakspeare 
of  the  unique  glory  which  will  always  remain  his 
alone.  A  myth  is  not  necessarily  a  fiction  nor  a 
mere  creation  of  the  imagination.  It  may  be  a 
fanciful  narrative  or  a  collection  of  such  narra- 
tives in  some  measure  founded  upon  real  events, 
and,  perhaps,  so  interwoven  with  those  events  as 
to  make  an^'thing  like  historical  criticism  impos- 
sible. The  real  Shakspeare  and  the  myth  are 
now  one.  Of  course  I  do  not  subscribe  to  the 
clodhopper  theory  that  represents  the  noblest 
literature  in  our  English  language  as  having 
bubbled  up  from  the  uninstructed  brain  of  a 
country  bumpkin.  It  is  admitted  that  Shaks- 
peare was  not  a  profound  scholar.  He  was  far 
from  being  possessed  of  Bacon's  erudition ;  he 
had  not  Milton's  Latin ;  and  I  doubt  if  he  knew 
a  word  of  Greek.     No  one  denies  he  laid  violent 


SHAKSPEARE'S  BONES  217 

hands  upon  the  literary  property  of  other  men. 
Whatever  he  wanted,  play,  narrative,  or  poem,  he 
appropriated  without  troubling  himself  to  give 
the  pillaged  author  credit.  But  it  is  also  true 
that  whatever  he  touched  he  beautified ;  and  much 
that  was  worthless  as  he  found  it  became  pure 
gold  in  the  transmuting  fires  of  his  genius. 

Great  writers  live  no  small  part  of  their  time 
upon  the  thin  edge  of  the  grossest  plagiarism, 
and  yet  whatever  they  appropriate  they  make 
their  own,  giving  it  a  spirit  and  a  new  beauty 
of  which  the  original  author  never  dreamed. 
Goethe  was  full  of  Shakspeare.  lago  and  Ham- 
let were  borrowed  almost  bodily.  Marguerite  is 
Ophelia  in  well-nigh  every  detail.  Both  women 
came  from  humble  life,  and  were  wooed  by  men 
of  superior  social  standing.  Marguerite  was  be- 
trayed, and  there  are  reasons  for  suspecting  that 
Ophelia  was  seduced.  Ophelia's  mad-song  re- 
appears in  Faust.  To  both  women  Fate  appor- 
tioned madness  and  death.  Compare  the  Witch's 
Kitchen  with  the  Witch  Scene  in  "Macbeth." 
Can  one  read  the  "Walpurgis  Night"  and  not  be 
reminded  of  the  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream"? 
Goethe  was  scarcely  less  indebted  to  Marlowe  and 
Calderon.  The  famous  Prologue  in  Heaven  is 
surely  taken  from  the  Book  of  Job.  It  was 
charged  against  Bunyan  that  he  made  his  "Pil- 
grim's Progress"  out  of  Caxton's  "Pilgrimage  of 
the  Soul"  and  Bernard's  "Isle  of  Man."  The 
charge  of  literary  dishonesty  was  brought  for- 


218       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

ward  during  Bunyan's  life,  for  there  are  pre- 
served four  lines  from  his  pen  in  which  he  repels 
the  charge.  Moliere  derived  his  plots,  his  dia- 
logues, and  even  whole  scenes,  from  Italian  come- 
dies. It  may  be  the  larger  fish  in  the  sea  of  life 
and  letters  have  a  right  to  subsist  upon  the  small 
fry,  and  yet  the  doctrine  is  dangerous  that  one 
may  steal  with  impunity  what  he  puts  to  good 
use. 

Were  we  living  in  Stratford,  and  so  fortunate 
as  to  own  a  corner  lot  or  two  in  that  sleepy  old 
town,  we  would  most  certainly  resist  every  move- 
ment looking  toward  the  opening  of  Shakspeare's 
tomb.  Were  we  so  highly  honored  as  to  be  the 
vicar,  or  an  influential  member  of  the  corpora- 
tion of  Holy  Trinity,  nothing  could  be  too  bad 
for  us  to  say  about  poor  little  Delia  Bacon,  who 
thought  to  bribe  the  sexton  and  work  her  way 
under  cover  of  night  like  a  grave-robber  into  the 
famous  vault.  But  we  frankly  confess  that  our 
watch-dog  proclivities  could  hardly  be  called  al- 
truistic, for  the  opening  of  that  tomb  would 
mean  the  bursting  of  one  of  the  most  profitable 
of  financial  bubbles.  Stratford  is  the  outer  crust 
over  an  inner  core  of  Shakspeare-myth.  To  dis- 
credit the  myth  would  be  to  put  Holy  Trinity  out 
of  business,  close  the  twenty  or  more  souvenir  and 
relic  shops  that  every  year  entice  from  literary 
pilgrims  and  more  vulgar  excursionists  their 
nimble  shillings,  and  render  the  Red  Horse,  the 
Falcon,  and  whatever  other  hostelries  have  hung 


SHAKSPEARE'S  BONES  219 

out  their  signboards,  the  prey  of  the  rapacious 
auctioneer.  It  may  be  the  Red  Horse  could  sub- 
sist for  a  time  upon  the  bones  of  Washington 
Irving,  if  they  are  not  already  picked  too  clean, 
but  the  glory  of  its  uncomfortable  rooms  and  in- 
digestible dinners  would  be  gone. 

More  than  forty  thousand  sixpences  were  paid 
in  one  year  (1906)  for  the  privilege  of  seeing 
Shakspeare's  birthplace,  and  this  was  but  a  single 
item  in  the  revenue  brought  in  by  the  famous 
Shakspeare-myth.  Nearly  every  visitor  gives  an- 
other sixpence  to  enter  the  museum.  Still  an- 
other sixpence  is  required  for  admission  to  the 
Memorial  Theatre.  Every  one  goes  to  Anne 
Hathaway's  house,  and  you  must  give  at  least  a 
sixpence  to  the  custodian.  The  sixpenny  fees 
alone  in  Stratford-on-Avon  seldom  come  to  less 
for  the  year  than  twenty  thousand  dollars.  Mr. 
Fitzgerald,  in  The  Munsey  for  September,  1907, 
has  tliis  to  say: 

"As  Irving  said,  at  Stratford  the  traveler's  mind 
'refuses  to  dwell  on  anything  that  is  not  connected 
with  Shakspeare' ;  and  the  town  practically  lives 
upon  the  cult.  Shakspeare  is  its  trade-mark,  so  to 
speak.  There  is  a  Shakspeare  Hotel,  with  rooms 
named  after  the  plays;  there  are  Shakspeare  tea- 
rooms; Shakspeare  busts  meet  us  at  every  turn;  not 
to  speak  of  picture  post-cards,  plates  and  cups, 
handkerchiefs,  colored  models  of  the  birthplace, 
and  a  thousand  odds  and  ends  more  or  less  remotely 
connected  with  the  poet's  name  and  fame. 

New  Place,  where  Shakspeare  spent  his  last 
years,  was  long  ago  demolished,  but  the  conscien- 


220       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

tious  pilgrim  must  pay  sixpence  to  see  the  site  of 
the  mansion  and  a  mulberry-tree  said  to  be  a  scion 
of  the  one  that  the  poet  planted  with  his  own  hand. 
The  original  tree  was  cut  down  in  1756  by  a  tenant 
who  disliked  the  importunities  of  visitors;  but  to 
this  day  men  come  to  you  on  the  streets  of  Strat- 
ford and  offer  you,  in  mysterious  whispers,  pipes, 
brooches,  and  toys  made  out  of  the  last  remaining 
fragments  of  its  wood. 

Scattered  through  the  surrounding  country  are 
subsidiary  shrines.  More  famous  than  many  a 
royal  palace  is  the  long,  low  cottage  where  dwelt 
Anne  Hathaway,  in  the  village  of  Shottery,  a  mile 
from  Stratford.  The  visitor  may  tread  today  the 
very  footpath  through  the  fields  along  which,  no 
doubt,  the  lad  Shakspeare  often  hurried  to  court 
his  sweetheart;  and  for  a  fee,  he  may  enter  the  cot- 
tage and  inspect  its  relics.  Then  there  is  another 
fee  for  the  cottage  at  Wilmcote  where  Mary  Arden 
— Shakspeare's  mother — was  born;  and  you  must 
pay  for  a  carriage  and  guide  to  Charlecote,  the 
ancient  home  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  whom  the  poet 
satirized  as  'Justice  Shallow.'  " 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  tomb  of 
Shakspeare  has  been  opened  more  than  once. 
The  doggerel  over  the  vault  could  hardly  restrain 
the  curiosity  of  an  entire  world,  and  there  is  not 
the  slightest  evidence  that  those  crude  lines  were 
the  work  of  the  great  poet.  It  is  more  than  likely 
the  limping  and  absurd  lines  were  cut  into  the 
stone  by  direction  of  some  member  of  the  family 
who  feared  that  in  time  the  bones  beneath  might 
be  hustled  out  of  their  resting  place  and  tossed 
into  the  charnel  house  which  at  that  day  adjoined 
the  chancel  of  the  church.     Only  the  graves  of 


SHAKSPEARE'S  BONES  221 

kings,  nobles,  and  great  generals  were  safe. 
Common  bones  had  no  value  and  received  little 
consideration.  It  is  so  in  some  measure  even  now. 
Nothing  prevents  the  running  of  a  street  over 
the  dust  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake  but  periodical 
outbursts  of  popular  wrath.  The  Roman  authori- 
ties chafe  under  restraints  that  prevent  them 
from  digging  up  the  dust  of  Keats  and  the 
"flame-proof  heart"  of  Shelley  in  the  old  Prot- 
estant Cemetery  at  Rome  to  make  way  for  a 
smart  new  avenue  which  they  are  quite  sure  would 
be  a  greater  glory  to  the  immortal  city  than  two 
scarcely  ornamental  gravestones.  Not  long  ago  a 
section  of  the  wall  of  the  cemetery  was  taken 
down  to  provide  room  for  a  street.  The  British 
Embassy  at  Rome  must  every  two  or  three  years 
interfere  and  head  off  the  intended  vandalism. 
Once  Queen  Victoria  herself  had  to  bring  to  bear 
the  power  of  her  personal  influence.  The  bones 
of  Schiller  were  tumbled  into  a  public  vault, 
whence  they  were  recovered  with  difficult}^  and 
uncertainty.  We  all  know  what  happened  in  the 
Chancel  of  St.  Giles,  Cripplegate,  in  1679,  if 
Aubrey's  account  of  the  violation  of  the  tomb 
of  Milton  is  to  be  trusted.  Shakspeare  was  only 
a  poet,  and  when  he  died  the  world  cared  little  for 
his  memory,  and  if  possible  even  less  for  the 
preservation  of  his  tomb.  He  was  simply  Mr. 
Shakspeare  of  Stratford-on-Avon,  a  good  actor 
and  a  successful  play-writer.  There  was  the  best 
of  reasons  for  carving  over  the  poet's  tomb  that 


222       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

rude  curse.  It  was  a  device  intended  to  keep  his 
bones  out  of  the  charnel  house.  Of  course  all 
this  is  based  upon  the  assumption  that  his  body 
was  really  placed  beneath  the  stone  upon  which  is 
inscribed  the  far-famed  curse.  There  have  been 
those  who  questioned  the  fact.  The  stone  itself 
records  no  name,  and  the  lines  are  quite  unworthy 
of  the  poet.  But  one  way  or  the  other,  those 
lines  were  intended  to  protect  whatever  body  was 
deposited  beneath  them.  Conceding  that  they 
have  accomplished  the  end  for  which  they  were 
composed  and  carved  upon  the  stone,  still  there 
is  absolutely  no  reason  for  believing  that  they 
have  for  about  three  hundred  years  prevented 
the  opening  of  that  tomb. 

Mr.  Donnelly  introduces  a  remarkable  ex- 
planation of  the  lines  over  the  tomb.  He  thinks 
that  Shakspeare  requested  Bacon  to  write  an  in- 
scription for  his  tombstone  that  would  prevent 
his  bones  from  being  cast  out  when  the  discov- 
ery of  the  Cipher  should  be  made.  As  Donnelly 
thinks  that  Bacon  introduced  the  Cipher,  and  as 
he  also  thinks  Ben  Jonson  conveyed  to  Shaks- 
peare intelligence  of  its  presence  in  the  Plays,  so 
he  naturally  credits  Bacon  with  the  doggerel  in- 
scription. The  author  of  this  paper  does  not  re- 
gard Mr.  Donnelly's  Cipher-theory  as  in  any  way 
worthy  of  study  or  discussion,  but  any  investi- 
gator who  may  wish  to  look  into  the  matter  for 
himself  can  find  Mr,  Donnelly's  views  fully  ex- 
pounded in  his  book,  "The  Great  Cryptogram," 


SHAKSPEARE'S  BONES  223 

published  in  1888.  The  first  part  of  the  book  is 
an  interesting  study  of  the  Plays  and  will  repay 
a  careful  reading,  but  the  second  part,  which  is 
taken  up  with  the  Cipher,  discredits  the  entire 
work.  Mr.  Donnelly  calls  attention  to  the  dis- 
covery in  the  Bodleian  Library  of  a  letter  from 
a  certain  William  Hall  addressed  to  Edward 
Thwaites,  the  Anglo-Saxon  scholar,  in  which  it 
is  stated  that  Shakspeare  ordered  the  four  lines 
of  doggerel  cut  on  the  tombstone  during  his  life- 
time, and  that  he  wished  to  be  buried  "full  seven- 
teen feet  deep,"  It  is  understood  that  Halliwell- 
Phillipps  pronounces  the  letter  genuine.  It  was 
probably  written  in  1694.  The  "seventeen  feet 
deep"  of  course  only  renders  the  possibility  of 
finding  any  Shakspeare  remains  still  more  remote. 
Some  time  ago  Mr.  James  Hare  published  in  a 
Birmingham  paper  an  account  of  a  remarkable 
visit  he  made  to  Shakspeare's  tomb.  Mr.  Hare 
said  that  in  1827  he  went  to  Stratford  with  a 
friend  and  "on  visiting  the  poet's  tomb  found  the 
vault  adjoining  it  open,  probably  for  the  recep- 
tion of  a  body."     These  are  his  words : 

"We  got  into  the  adjoining  vault  and  stood  upon 
a  board.  While  there  we  looked  through  an  open- 
ing in  the  wall  that  separated  Shakspeare's  tomb 
from  the  one  in  which  we  were  standing,  and  we 
could  see  nothing  in  it  but  a  slight  elevation  of 
mouldering  dust  on  its  level  floor,  and  the  smallness 
of  the  quantity  surprised  me.  No  trace  or  appear- 
ance of  a  coffin  or  of  undecomposed  bones,  and  cer- 
tainly no  such  elevation  as  a  skull  would  occasion 


224       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

was  observed.  The  impression  produced  by  what 
we  saw  was  that  the  remains  had  been  enclosed  in 
an  ordinary  wooden  coffin  and  simply  laid  on  the 
floor  of  the  vault,  which  may  have  been  of  earth, 
though  of  that  we  could  determine  nothing.  If  a 
leaden  casket  had  been  used,  it  would  have  been 
present  in  some  form  or  other,  or  had  an  amount 
of  earth  been  dug  out  to  bury  it  below  the  surface, 
a  depression  would  have  been  the  natural  conse- 
quence, and  the  elevation  could  not  then  be  ac- 
counted for," 

I  would  attach  no  undue  importance  to  Mr. 
Hare's  communication,  which  at  the  time  of  its 
publication  attracted  some  attention.  I  merely 
insist  that  there  is  no  good  reason  for  thinking 
that  the  Shakspeare  vault  has  remained  unex- 
plored during  all  the  time  it  has  been  a  center  of 
world-wide  interest.  The  fact  that  there  is  no 
authentic  account  of  such  exploration  signed  bj 
suitable  witnesses,  favors  rather  than  opposes  the 
opinion  advanced.  Any  person  who  should  open 
that  tomb  and  find  it  empty,  and  who  should  have 
the  temerity  to  publish  that  most  unwelcome  fact 
to  an  indignant  world,  would  find  himself  counted 
forever  among  the  enemies  of  mankind.  The 
Rev.  Francis  Gastrell,  who  cut  down  the  Shaks- 
peare mulberry-tree,  and  the  classically  inclined 
Malone,  who  painted  the  decorated  bust  of  the 
poet  in  the  chancel  a  snowy  white,  are  both  of 
them  pilloried.  It  is  hard  to  say  what  might  be- 
come of  the  man  who  should  break  into  the  tomb 
and  find  it  empty ;  for  his    offense    the  pillory 


SHAKSPEARE"S  BONES  225 

would  seem  to  be  too  mild  an  instrument  of  ven- 
geance. 

Of  course  there  are  those,  and  thev  are  largely 
in  the  majority,  who  hold  to  a  very  different 
opinion.  It  is  only  fair  that  these  should  have  a 
hearing,  though,  in  truth,  they  have  never  been 
backward  about  helping  themselves  to  what 
seems  to  be  something  more  than  a  just  share  of 
public  attention.  Mr.  J.  Parker  Xorris  some 
time  ago  relieved  his  mind  in  the  Manhattan 
Magazine.  He  believes  that  Shakspeare  was  en- 
tombed in  an  hermetically-sealed  cofEn  and  that  it 
is  more  than  likely  the  poet's  body  is  even  now 
in  a  state  of  perfect  preservation.  These  are  his 
words : 

"Shakspeare  was  buried  under  the  chancel  of 
the  Church  of  Holy  Trinity  at  Stratford-upon- 
Avon,  alongside  of  the  graves  of  his  wife,  his 
daughter  Susanna  Hall.  John  Hall  her  husband, 
and  Thomas  Xash  the  husband  of  EHzabeth.  who 
was  the  daughter  of  John  and  Susanna  Hall. 
These  graves  He  side  by  side,  and  stretch  across  the 
chancel  of  the  church  immediately  in  front  of  the 
rail  separating  the  altar  from  the  remainder  of  the 
chancel. 

The  situation  of  these  graves  shows  that  Shak- 
speare and  his  family  were  persons  of  importance 
in  the  town  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  and  makes  it 
very  probable  that  the  poet  was  buried  in  an  her- 
metically-sealed leaden  cofSn.  Such  coffins  were 
commonly  used  in  those  days  for  those  whose  rela- 
tions could  afford  them.  If  this  conjecture  be  true, 
the  remains  will  certainly  be  found  in  a  much  bet- 
ter  state   of   preservation   than  they   would   be    in 


£26       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

were  a  mere  wooden  coffin  alone  employed,  although 
even  in  the  latter  case,  we  must  not  despair  of  find- 
ing much  that  would  be  of  utmost  value  in  deter- 
mining  Shakspeare's   personal   appearance. 

Not  many  years  ago  some  graves  of  those  who 
were  buried  about  the  same  time  that  Shakspeare 
was  entombed  were  opened  at  Church  Lawford,  in 
England,  and  the  faces,  figures,  and  even  the  very 
dresses  of  their  occupants  were  found  to  be  quite 
perfect.  Half  an  hour  after  the  admission  of  air 
they  became  heaps  of  dust.  A  long  enough  period 
elapsed,  however,  to  enable  a  photographer  to 
make  successful  pictures  of  them,  had  any  suitable 
preparations  been  thought  of. 

Think  of  a  photograph  of  Shakspeare  'in  his 
habit  as  he  lived.'  Would  not  such  a  relic  be  of  in- 
estimable value  to  the  world,  and  what  would  not 
be  given  for  such  a  treasure.^" 

Does  anyone  in  his  sober  senses,  who  has  given 
the  matter  an  hour's  serious  and  intelligent  con- 
sideration, believe  that  the  body  of  Shakspeare 
could  lie  unexamined  in  a  tomb  where  it  must 
sooner  or  later  disintegrate,  and  that  it  could 
remain  in  that  tomb  unexamined  three  hundred 
years,  during  most  of  which  time  the  entire  civi- 
lized world  was  so  anxious  to  know  all  about  the 
poet  that  an  essayist  could  feel  himself  justified 
in  exclaiming,  "Think  of  a  photograph  of 
Shakspeare  'in  his  habit  as  he  lived.'  Would  not 
such  a  relic  be  of  inestimable  value  to  the  world, 
and  what  would  not  be  given  for  such  a  treas- 
ure.?" 

"What  would  not  be  given.?" — well,  most  any- 


SHAKSPEARE'S  BONES  227 

thing  would  be  given,  including  permission  to 
open  the  tomb  and  make  the  coveted  pictures. 
No  such  price  as  the  opening  of  the  tomb  has, 
according  to  the  Stratford  authorities,  ever  been 
paid,  nor  do  we  believe  that  the  aforesaid  author- 
ities will  ever  incline  to  the  payment  of  such  a 
price.  The  reason  is  not  far  to  see.  Before  you 
photograph  a  man,  you  must  make  certain  of  his 
presence.  The  positive  assurance  that  the  tomb 
in  Holy  Trinity  is  at  the  present  moment  the 
actual  guardian  of  the  poet's  bones,  that  those 
bones  had  been  seen  by  competent  witnesses,  and 
that  accurate  photographs  of  them  had  been 
made  and  could  be  viewed  by  all  who  were  in- 
clined to  examine  them,  would,  even  were  the 
bones  in  a  partly  disintegrated  condition,  increase 
rather  than  diminish  the  importance  of  Stratford 
in  general  and  of  Holy  Trinity  in  particular. 
The  entire  civilized  world  would  be  interested  in 
such  an  assurance.  Still  the  vault  remains,  ac- 
cording to  the  custodians,  unopened.  Do  I  be- 
lieve that  it  has  never  been  opened.'*  Good 
reader,  I  believe  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  think  I 
see  in  the  reluctance  to  open  that  tomb  very  good 
evidence  that  it  has  been  opened,  and  that  those 
who  have  the  largest  personal  interest  in  the  mat- 
ter are  satisfied  that  the  public  opening  of  what 
is  known  as  the  Shakspeare  tomb  would  have  a 
disastrous  effect  upon  the  Shakspeare-myth,  and 
upon  Stratford  revenues. 

No  other  tomb,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  ever  re- 


228       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

sisted  the  pressure  that  has  been  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  vault  in  Holy  Trinity.  Men  have  ex- 
plored the  mummy-pits  of  Egypt,  and  it  is 
believed  by  those  who  are  competent  to  form  an 
opinion  in  the  matter  that  the  veritable  body  of 
Cleopatra  now  rests  in  a  glass  case  in  the  British 
Museum.  Men  have  digged  in  the  tombs  of 
Agamemnon,  Kassandra  and  Eurymedon,  and  in 
the  very  dust  of  Achilles  and  Ajax.  The  dis- 
covery of  the  relics  of  Theseus  has  been  reported. 
The  tomb  of  the  Scipios  has  been  opened.  Even 
the  sacred  relics  of  the  Buddha  have  been 
brought  to  light,  and  are  now  reverently  pre- 
served by  the  followers  of  his  faith.  To  come 
down  to  later  times,  the  tombs  of  Charles  Martel, 
Charlemagne,  Frederick  II.  of  Germany,  Queen 
Elizabeth,  Charles  I.  of  England,  Tycho  Brahe, 
Raphael,  Emanuel  Swedenborg,  and  George 
Washington  have  been  opened.  Is  the  tomb  of 
the  Bard-of-Avon  more  sacred  than  all  these 
tombs?  How  are  we  to  account  for  the  fact  that 
the  vault  in  Stratford  has  resisted  and  still  re- 
sists greater  pressure  than  was  necessary  to  open 
all  these  and  many  other  tombs  in  every  part  of 
the  world?  There  can  be,  so  it  seems  to  me,  but 
one  answer — the  Shakspeare  tomb  has  not  re- 
sisted the  pressure,  but  has  been  opened  and 
thoroughly  explored.  Why,  then,  have  we  no 
authentic  account  of  such  opening?  My  dear 
reader,  ask  the  vicar  of  Holy  Trinity  and  the 
custodians  of  the  tomb  that  question. 


SHAKSPEARE'S  BONES  229 

Mr.  Norris  Is  persuaded  that  the  body  of 
Shakspeare  was  buried  in  an  hermetically-sealed 
leaden  coffin.  What  reason  has  he  for  such  a 
persuasion?  He  tells  us  it  was  customary  to  bury 
persons  of  distinction  in  such  coffins  when  their 
friends  were  able  to  meet  the  increased  expense. 
But  there  is  nothing  to  indicate  that  Shaks- 
peare's  relatives  would  be  likely  to  indulge  the 
dead  body  in  any  luxury  of  the  kind,  and  we  have 
no  account  of  any  provision  made  by  the  poet 
himself  for  so  expensive  an  interment.  A  leaden 
coffin  would  certainly  have  rendered  the  body  rea- 
sonably safe,  but  the  very  fact  that  the  family 
cut  those  doggerel  lines  over  the  vault  to  prevent 
desecration  inclines  us  to  believe  that  no  one  knew 
anything  about  a  leaden  coffin.  Such  a  coffin 
would  have  made  the  disagreeable  epigraphic 
curse  wholly  unnecessary. 

Why  should  the  Shakspeare  family  hury  the 
leaden  coffin?  Vaults  are  usually  supposed  to  do 
away  with  the  necessity  for  earth-burial.  The 
cases  are  rare  in  which  the  floor  of  a  vault  has 
been  dug  up  in  order  to  inhume  a  coffin  of  any 
kind.  No,  reader,  there  was  neither  leaden  cof- 
fin nor  earth-burial.  If  the  body  of  Shakspeare 
was  ever  placed  in  that  vault,  it  was  placed  there 
incased  in  a  wooden  coffin  and  that  coffin  rested 
upon  the  floor  of  the  vault,  which  may  have  been 
of  stone,  cement,  or  common  earth.  There  is 
an  old  tradition  that  cannot  be  traced  back  of 
1693,  that  Shakspeare's  wife  and  daughter  de- 


230       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

sired  to  be  laid  in  the  same  grave  witli  the  poet, 
but  that  "not  one,  for  fear  of  the  curse  above 
said,  dare  touch  his  gravestone."  The  tradition 
is  nothing  more  than  a  tradition,  but  it  shows  us 
something  of  the  power  of  superstition  in  an  age 
of  great  ignorance,  and  it  helps  us  to  see  how 
those  four  lines  may  have  prevented  Shakspeare's 
bones  from  being  thrown  into  the  charnel-house ; 
but  that  the  rude  curse  had  any  terror  for  en- 
lightened antiquaries,  or  that  it  now  renders  the 
opening  of  the  vault  difficult,  it  would  be  folly 
to  assert.  Curses  of  the  kind  were  not  uncom- 
mon. Many  tombs  have  been  opened  in  the  face 
of  even  more  ferocious  imprecations.  The  old 
Romans  were  in  the  habit  of  denouncing  upon  the 
stones  over  their  dead  whoever  should  dare  to  dis- 
turb the  bones  beneath.  By  the  Aurelian  gate 
was  the  following  inscription  belonging  to  the 
Pagan  period: 

C.  TVLIVS.  C.  L. 

BARNAEVS 

OLLA.  EJVS.  SI.  QVI 

OV  VIOLARIT.  AD 

INFEROS.  NON  RECIPIATVR. 

C.  Tullius  Barnaeus.  If  any  one  violate  this  urn, 
let  him  not  be  received  into  the  Infernal  Regions 
(i.  e.,  Elysium). 

Maitland  has  recorded  one  to  the  same  import 
among  the  Christian  remains  in  the  Lapidarian 
Gallery : 


SHAKSPEARE'S  BONES  231 

MALE.  PEREAT.  INSEPVLTVS 

lACEAT.  NON.  RESVRGAT 

CVM.  IVDA.  PARTEM.  HABEAT 

SI  QVIS.  SEPVLCHRVM.  HVNC 

VIOLAVERIT. 

If  any  one  violate  this  Sepulchre,  let  him  perish 
miserably,  lie  unburied,  and  not  arise,  but  have  his 
lot  with  Judas.* 

Here  is  a  Greek  inscription: 

"I  summon  to  the  guardianship  of  this  tomb  the 
lower  Gods,  Pluto,  Demeter,  Persephone,  and  all 
the  others.  If  any  one  despoils  it,  opens  it,  or  in 
any  way  disturbs  it,  by  himself  or  an  agent,  may 
his  journey  on  land  be  obstructed,  on  the  sea  may 
he  be  tempest-tossed  and  thoroughly  baffled  and 
driven  about  in  every  way.  May  he  suffer  every 
ill,  chills  and  fevers,  remittent  and  intermittent, 
and  the  most  repulsive  skin  diseases.  Whatever  is 
injurious  and  disturbing  in  life  may  it  fall  on  him 
that  dares  remove  anything  from  this  tomb." 

The  following  is  from  the   Phoenician  of  Es- 
munazar,  King  of  the  Two  Sidons:  t 

"I  have  departed  hence, 
And  am  no  more  forever. 
Like  the  day  I  vanished. 
Hath  my  spirit  faded  from  the  world, 
And  my  voice 
Ceased  from  sounding  in  the  ears  of  men. 

Hush!     Here  sleeps  a  king, 

Encoffined  in  the  tomb 

He  builded  with  his  wealth; 


♦Petegrew:  "Collection  of  Epitaphs,  p.  194. 
tMarvin.-  "Flowers  of  Song  from  Many  Lands,"  p.  119. 


»32       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVES 

Bequeathing  unto  whomsoe'er 

Shall  move  his  bones. 

Or  dig  for  treasure  in  his  mould'ring  dust, 

A  curse  that  shall  continue. 

And  consume  his  race: 

To  him  and  his  be  there  no  rest  for  evermore, 

Nor  fruit  of  any  toil; 

Let  him,  when  dead,  lie  rotting  on  the  field, 

His  bones  the  prey  of  jackals. 

I  have  departed  hence. 
To  dwell  no  more  with  men; 
And,  like  the  day  I  vanished. 
Hath  my  spirit  faded  into  nothingness: 
Farewell." 

What  is  the  upshot  of  the  whole  matter  ?  This : 
The  body  of  Shakspeare,  if  it  was  ever  deposited 
beneath  the  stone  that  does  not  bear  the  poet's 
name  and  that  is  defaced  by  four  lines  of  con- 
summate doggerel,  was  there  deposited  in  an  or- 
dinary wooden  coffin  which  was  left  resting  upon 
the  floor  of  the  vault,  and  which  in  due  time  crum- 
bled away.  The  last  vestige  of  the  person  of 
Shakspeare  has,  I  doubt  not,  returned  to  earth. 
There  is  one  other  possibility  painful  to  contem- 
plate, and  which  need  not  detain  us  here.  Hun- 
dreds of  graves  in  England  and  elsewhere  have 
been  pillaged.  There  have  been,  and  there  are 
today,  many  persons  who  would  be  glad  to  open 
the  tomb  of  Shakspeare  by  stealth,  no  other  way 
being  possible.  There  are  even  those  who  would 
be  glad  to  plunder  it  for  gain.  But  no  one  who 
should  succeed  in  entering  that  vault  would  care 


SHAKSPEARE'S  BONES  ^S 

to  report  himself,  unless  he  had  found  something 
to  justify  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  his  audacity, 
and  it  may  be,  sacrilege.  What  discovery  could 
justify  his  act  in  the  eyes  of  Stratford  and  Holy 
Trinity?  No  discovery  of  any  kind,  and  cer- 
tainly not  the  discovery  of  nothing  at  all. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  the  word  "moves"  in 
the  famous  curse  over  what  is  believed  to  be  the 
Shakspeare  vault,  should  be  understood  as  having 
the  sense  of  removes,  and  if  I  am  right  in  think- 
ing that  the  inscription  was  intended  only  to  pre- 
vent the  bones  from  being  cast  into  the  charnel- 
house,  then  certainly  no  malediction,  stated  or  im- 
plied, stands  in  the  way  of  a  thorough  examina- 
tion of  the  tomb  and  its  contents,  should  any  con- 
tents be  discovered.  Of  course,  as  has  been  said, 
there  is  uncertainty  with  regard  to  the  exact  lo- 
cation of  Shakspeare*s  last  resting  place.  Less 
than  a  century  ago  the  slab  over  the  vault,  hav- 
ing sunk  so  as  to  be  somewhat  below  the  level  of 
the  pavement,  was  removed,  and  another  stone 
was  substituted.  Shakspeare's  name  was  not  upon 
the  original  stone,  nor  is  it  cut  into  the  stone  that 
replaces  it,  though  the  lines  appear  upon  both 
slabs.  There  is  no  absolute  certainty  that  the 
new  stone  was  placed  in  exactly  the  position  pre- 
viously occupied  by  the  old  one.  Still  there  could 
be  little  difficulty  in  finding  the  remains,  suppos- 
ing them  to  be  in  existence,  for  one  way  or  the 
other,  the  body  of  Shakspeare  must  have  been  de- 
posited near  the  present  stone  which,  in  all  proba- 
bility, covers  at  least  a  portion  of  the  vault. 


234       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

The  Stratford  authorities  cannot  plead  the  use- 
lessness  of  an  examination  of  the  Shakspeare 
tomb  as  an  excuse  for  their  refusal  to  permit  such 
examination,  for  the  recovery  of  the  skull  would 
set  at  rest  various  questions  that  have  for  a  long 
time  disturbed  the  minds  of  students  and  critics. 
It  would  determine  the  value  of  the  Bust,  the 
Kesselstadt  Death-Mask,  the  Droeshout  engrav- 
ing, the  Janssen  portrait  on  wood  in  the  collection 
of  the  Duke  of  Somerset,  the  Chandos  portrait, 
the  Croker  portrait,  the  Hunt  picture  at  the 
Birthplace,  and  a  number  of  other  representations 
of  one  kind  or  another. 

There  are  many  and  good  reasons  why  the 
tomb  should  be  opened,  at  least  from  the  anti- 
quarian's point  of  view,  but  never  will  the  Strat- 
ford authorities  give  consent.  It  would  mean, 
as  has  been  shown,  the  collapse  of  a  Shakspeare- 
myth,  involving  the  fortunes  of  Holy  Trinity  and 
the  prosperity  and  importance  of  Stratford-upon- 
Avon. 


X 

HOLOGRAPHS 


"O  most  gracious  and  worshipful  Lord  God, 
wonderful  in  Thy  providence,  I  return  all  possible 
thanks  to  Thee  for  the  care  Thou  hast  always 
taken  of  me.  I  continually  meet  with  signal  in- 
stances of  this  Thy  providence,  and  one  act  yester- 
day, when  I  unexpectedly  met  with  three  old  MSS., 
for  which,  in  a  particular  manner,  I  return  my 
thanks,  beseeching  Thee  to  continue  the  same  pro- 
tection to  me  a  poor  helpless  sinner,  and  that  for 
Jesus  Christ  his  sake." 

— Prayer  of  Thomas  Hearne  the  Antiquary. 


HOLOGRAPHS 

NOTHING  connected  with  the  life  of  a 
great  man  is,  strictly  speaking,  private. 
My  humble  neighbor's  fireside  is  his  own,  and 
of  it  no  man  may  despoil  him;  but  Shakspeare 
has  no  fireside  that  may  not  be  invaded.  Who- 
ever will,  may  enquire  into  the  dramatist's  do- 
mestic and  other  affairs  without  the  remotest 
approach  to  indelicacy  of  any  kind.  The  great 
man  is  something  more  than  a  man ;  he  is  so  much 
of  the  world  as  he  has  enriched,  and  the  age  in 
which  he  lived  lives  and  will  always  live  in  him. 
Browning's  son  has  been  censured  for  publishing 
certain  letters  that  passed  between  his  father  and 
mother  before  their  marriage ;  but  those  who  cen- 
sure him  forget  the  greatness  of  the  two  poets, 
who,  because  of  that  greatness,  belong  to  the  en- 
tire world.  A  dealer  may  vend  those  letters  if  he 
will,  and  who  will  pay  for  them  may  have  them 
with  wrong  to  no  man.  A  late  decision  of  the  Court 
of  Appeal  in  England  declares  the  right  to  pub- 
lish certain  letters  of  Charles  Lamb  to  reside  with 
their  present  possessor.  By  inference,  at  least, 
the  decision  gives  the  receiver  of  letters  the  right 
to  publish  such  letters  without  the  consent  of  the 
writer  or  of  his  executor  or  other  legal  repre- 
sentative should  he  be  no  longer  living.  The  de- 
cision, so  far  as  it  affects  the  unpublished  letters 
of  men  and  women  in  no  way  connected  with  pub- 
237 


238       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

lie  life,  may  be  wrong,  but  it  only  recognizes  a 
fact  already  established  and  acted  upon,  that  the 
letters  of  distinguished  persons  belong  in  a  cer- 
tain sense  to  all  the  world,  and  the  collector  may 
be  said  to  hold  them  in  trust.     When  the  library 
of  the  late  William  Andrews,  who  wrote  so  many 
valuable  books  on  antiquarian  subjects,  was  cata- 
logued for  public  sale,  it  was  found  that  more 
than  half  of  the  books  to  be  offered  by  the  auc- 
tioneer had  been  enriched  by  the  insertion  of  one 
or  more  letters  written  by  authors.     The  owner 
of  a  valuable  letter  may  have  a  legal  right  to 
destroy   it,   but    no   man   could   have    an   ethical 
right  to  drop  a  letter  written  by  Shakspeare,  were 
he  so  fortunate  as  to  possess  such  a  treasure,  into 
the  fire,  nor  could  he,  without  wronging  his  fel- 
low men,  deliberately  destroy  an  epistle  addressed 
by  Abelard  to  Heloise  or  one  written  by  either 
Vittoria    Colonna    or   Michael    Angelo.      Private 
ownership  can  never  extinguish  the  world's  inter- 
est in  its    great  men    and  in    such    treasures  as 
closely    connect    themselves    with    the    sons    and 
daughters   of   genius.      The   Italian   government 
will  not  permit  the  owner  of  a  celebrated  picture 
or  statue  to  sell  the  work  of  art  to  one  who  in- 
tends to  remove  it  from  the  country.     Egypt  has 
so  absolutely  and  unconditionally  forbidden  the 
exposing  of  her  antiquities  for  sale  that  the  large 
and  famous  museums  of  the  world  find  it  hard  to 
obtain  even  the  ordinary  remains  of  ancient  times 
that  one  expects  to  find  in  extensive  collections  of 
antiquities. 


HOLOGRAPHS  239 

I  never  called  myself  an  autograph  collector, 
but  m}^  fondness  for  books  and  my  great  interest 
in  the  literary  life,  as  well  as  my  large  acquaint- 
ance with  men  and  women  who  "drive  the  quill," 
have  resulted  in  a  library  table  drawer  full  of 
letters,  documents,  and  mementos  that  have 
yielded  a  large  return  in  the  purest  intellectual 
satisfaction.  ]\Iany  delightful  evenings  have  been 
passed  in  fellowship  and  communion  with  those 
creased  and  time-worn  treasures.  I  am  sure  they 
have  not  made  me  selfish,  for  I  am  ready  at  all 
times  to  unlock  that  treasure-house  of  delight  for 
the  gladness  and  satisfaction  of  others. 

Here  we  have  a  letter  from  Joel  Barlow  ad- 
dressed to  his  friend  John  Fellows,  who  was  in 
his  day  and  generation  an  author  of  some  note, 
though  few  in  these  later  times  know  very  much 
about  him.  So  fades  the  glory  of  this  world. 
He  was  a  wise  man  who  described  fame  as  a 
flower  upon  the  bosom  Death.  To  most  of  us 
Fellows  is  now  little  more  than  a  name  in  a  bio- 
graphical dictionary,  if  indeed  he  is  even  that. 
Barlow  was  a  Congregational  clergyman  and  a 
chaplain  in  the  American  army.  Later,  when  the 
world,  if  not  the  flesh  and  the  devil,  had  com- 
passed him  about,  and  grasped  him  tight,  he 
was  admitted  to  the  bar.  Then  as  now  the  law 
led  on  to  political  preferment,  and  so  it  came  to 
pass  that  our  author  became  consul  in  Algiers, 
He  was  also  minister  plenipotentiary  to  the 
French  Government,  and  in  the  autumn  of  1812 


24-0       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

he  received  an  invitation  to  a  conference  with 
Napoleon  at  Wilnar  in  Poland.  He  died  before 
the  meeting  with  the  Emperor.  Our  interest  in 
Barlow  centers  in  none  of  his  public  achieve- 
ments and  honors,  but  in  his  literary  work.  He 
wrote  "Hasty  Pudding"  and  "The  Columbiad," 
both  of  which  are  conspicuous  among  early  con- 
tributions to  American  literature.  Few  who 
think  of  him  as  a  preacher  of  the  Gospel  and  a 
compiler  of  one  of  our  New  England  hymn-books 
know  that  he  forsook  the  faith  of  his  early  days 
and  became  a  warm  personal  friend  and  disciple 
of  Thomas  Paine.  The  following  letter  will 
show  how  far  he  wandered  from  the  religious  be- 
lief in  which  he  was  educated  and  which  he  once 
preached.  Here,  so  far  as  I  know,  this  letter 
finds  itself  in  cold  print  for  the  first  time: 

Hamburg,  May  23rd,  1795. 
To  John  Fellows, 

New  York. 
Dear  Sir: 

I  received  a  few  weeks  ago  by  Capt.  Jenkins 
your  favor  of  the  12th  March,  with  the  bundle  of 
pamphlets  and  books.  This  being  the  first  copy  I 
have  seen  of  the  New  York  Edition  of  the  "Ad- 
vice." I  am  mortified  to  find  it  so  full  of  errors. 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  answer  for  my  own  non- 
sense without  having  an  additional  quantity  forged 
by  the  Printers,  I  now  send  you  a  corrected  Edi- 
tion of  the  Four  Political  Pieces,  which  I  wish 
you  to  publish  in  the  order  in  which  I  place  them, 
with  the  title  I  have  just  put  to  the  whole.  I  do 
this  because  you  mention  your  intention  of  publish- 


HOLOGRAPHS  241 

ing  a  new  edition,  which  I  hope  you  have  not  done 
before  this  arrives  as  I  am  very  anxious  you  should 
make  use  of  this  corrected  edition. 

You  will  observe  that  in  this  edition  no  notice 
is  taken  of  First  and  Second  parts  in  the  "Advice," 
nor  of  the  remaining  three  chapters  which  it  was 
my  intention  to  write,  but  which  my  other  occupa- 
tions have  prevented  me  from  writing.  As  to  the 
title  of  the  "Advice,"  I  always  felt  it  to  be  an  un- 
fortunate one,  but  it  is  now  too  late  to  remedy  the 
matter.  It  must  take  its  fate  in  the  world  in  its 
present  form.  But  you  can  in  the  advertisements 
mention  the  subjects  of  the  different  chapters. 

I  think  it  will  continue  to  be  a  book  of  a  steady, 
slow  sale,  but  I  never  expected  it  to  be  rapid. 

As  to  the  little  poem  I  sent  to  Carey,  I  care  noth- 
ing about  it.  If  it  should  come  to  you,  you  may 
publish  it,  but  without  the  Dedication.  I  don't 
know  Mr.  Carey;  but  a  man  of  common  civility 
would  at  least  have  answered  my  letter,  which  he 
has  not  done. 

I  have  seen  sometime  ago  N.  W.'s  criticisms  on 
the  "Advice."  It  is  no  more  than  what  I  might  ex- 
pect. I  have  no  doubt  of  his  friendship  for  me. 
His  intentions  are  much  better  than  his  arguments. 
I  had  seen  before  what  he  wrote  on  the  French 
Revolution, — a  thing  he  knows  nothing  about.  He 
took  his  text,  I  suppose,  from  an  English  minister- 
ial paper  where  a  decree  was  made  for  the  Con- 
vention that  "Death  is  an  Eternal  Sleep" — a  de- 
cree which  the  Convention  certainly  never  heard  of 
unless  they  may  have  read  it  in  an  English  paper 
or  in  Mr.  Webster's  book.  It  is  in  this  manner  that 
the  people  of  Europe  have  been  perpetually  misin- 
formed with  respect  to  the  affairs  of  France,  and 
it  is  not  strange  that  the  people  of  America  should 
share  in  this  imposition  so  long  as  you  find  grave 
historians  who  will  sit  down  in  their  closets  in  New 


£4£       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

York  and  give  them  the  French  Revolution  from 
the  mouths  of  their  enemies. 

I  am  sorry  to  find  such  a  slavish  spirit  of  aris- 
tocracy as  is  manifest  in  America.  It  is  what  I 
foresaw  from  the  beginning  of  the  Funding  System, 
and  it  might  have  been  known  to  be  the  object  of 
its  authors  by  those  who  knew  the  men.  But  I 
likewise  see  a  retrograde  march  in  this  phalanx  of 
little  despots.  It  is  impossible  for  them  to  with- 
stand the  great  current  of  opinion  that  will  set  the 
other  way  with  a  vast  accumulation  of  force  as  soon 
as  the  French  Revolution  shall  be  understood,  and 
especially  when  a  like  change  of  government  shall 
take  place  in  England,  which  is  an  event  as  irresist- 
ible as  the  march  of  Time.  We  have  many  good 
things  in  American  character,  but  it  does  not  sig- 
nify for  us  to  deny  that  on  subjects  in  general  we 
are  the  apes  of  European  opinions.  We  receive 
some  of  these  opinions  from  France,  but  most  of 
them  come  from  England,  and  when  good  opinions 
shall  prevail  there,  there  will  be  no  danger  of  our 
own. 

I  rejoice  at  the  progress  of  good  sense  over  the 
damnable  imposture  of  Christian  mummery.  I  had 
no  doubt  of  the  effect  of  Paine's  "Age  of  Reason." 
It  must  be  cavilled  at  awhile,  but  it  must  prevail. 
Though  things  as  good  have  been  often  said,  they 
never  were  said  in  as  good  a  way.  I  am  glad  to 
see  a  translation,  and  so  good  a  one,  of  Boulanger's 
Christianisme  De voile."  It  is  remarkably  correct 
and  elegant.  I  have  not  had  time  to  compare  the 
whole  of  the  translation  with  the  original,  but  so 
far  as  I  have  compared  it  I  never  saw  a  better  one. 
Some  few  mistakes  indeed  I  have  noticed  which 
appear  to  be  the  effect  of  haste.  I  have  not  at  this 
moment  the  translation  by  me,  or  I  would  point 
them  out  to  you  for  correction  in  another  edition. 
I  wish  Mr.  Johnson  would  go  on  and  give  us  the 


HOLOGRAPHS  243 

next  volume — the  history  of  that  famous  mounte- 
bank called  St.  Paul.  I  should  think  these  two  books 
would  give  such  a  currency  to  the  author  in  Amer- 
ica that  the  translator  might  be  encouraged  to  go  on 
and  complete  his  whole  works^  especially  "L'An- 
tiquite  Devoile,"  and  his  'Oriental  Despotism."  I 
do  not  know  that  these  books  have  been  translated, 
but  if  they  have,  they  are  probably  not  rendered  so 
well  as  this  translator  would  render  them. 

I  need  not  request  your  particular  attention  to 
the  press  in  this  new  edition  of  my  works.  I  ob- 
serve with  pleasure  in  the  "Letter  to  the  Piedmon- 
tese"  there  are  only  two  slight  mistakes  (page  40) 
and  I  will  not  swear  that  these  were  not  in  the 
copy. 

You  need  not  send  me  any  more  after  you  get 
this,  as  I  shall,  I  hope,  be  with  you  before  winter. 

I  wish  you  would  not  suifer  a  word  of  this  letter 
to  go  into  a  newspaper. 

With  thanks  for  the  agreeable  presents  you  sent 
me,  I  salute  you  with  fraternal  affection. 

Joel  Barlow. 

Apropos  of  Barlow's  religious  defection,  Dr. 
Moncure  D.  Conway  told  me  the  sad  story  of  the 
spiritual  unrest  and  final  rejection  of  Christianity 
as  a  divinely  revealed  system  of  faith  by  Sarah 
Flower  Adams.  Mrs.  Adams  was,  it  will  be  re- 
membered, the  author  of  the  lovely  hymn, 
"Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee" — a  hynm  that  can 
never  become  obsolete.  The  "South  Place  Hymn 
Book"  (published  in  1841)  was  largely  the  work 
of  the  Rev.  W.  J.  Fox,  who  was  the  pastor  of  the 
South  Place  Chapel,  and  his  gifted  parishioner, 
Sarah  Flower  Adams.      The  congregation  wor- 


244.       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

shipping  in  the  chapel  was  at  first  liberal  Uni- 
tarian, but  under  the  ministry  of  Mr.  Fox  it  be- 
came rationalistic,  and  Dr.  Conway's  preaching 
greatly  increased  the  liberal  sentiment  for  which 
it  now  stands.  The  hymn  "Nearer,  My  God,  to 
Thee"  was  printed  first  in  the  book  above  named 
and  it  is  hard  to  believe,  what  is  beyond  all  doubt 
true,  that  the  beautiful  hymn,  a  portion  of  which 
President  McKinley  repeated  most  devoutly  upon 
his  deathbed,  was  written  by  one  who  had  aban- 
doned belief  in  revealed  religion. 

In  one's  mental  attitude  toward  Thomas  Paine 
it  is  right  to  keep  in  view  the  fact  that  public 
opinion  of  the  man  and  his  work  was  largely 
formed  by  the  avowed  opponents  of  Paine,  some 
of  whom  hesitated  at  nothing  that  could  do  him 
harm.  I  cannot  think  the  author  of  "The 
Age  of  Reason"  was  all  that  his  biographer 
represents  him  to  have  been,  but  he  had  his  vir- 
tues, and  some  of  his  deeds  were  noble  and  wor- 
thy of  remembrance.  The  discussion  of  Barlow's 
letter  with  Conway  led  the  latter  to  address  me 
the  following  note  which  I  took,  some  time  ago, 
from  the  little  drawer  in  my  library  table  and 
fastened  into  the  second  volume  of  Conway's 
"Life  of  Thomas  Paine,"  where  whoever  pur- 
chases the  book  will  find  it  when  the  auctioneer 
deals  with  my  estate: 

Dear  Sir: 

Thank  you  for  your  "Christ  Among  the  Cattle." 
It  was  the  much-abused  "Tom  Paine"  who  began 


HOLOGRAPHS  245 

in  this  country  the  protest  against  cruelty  to  ani- 
malSj  in  the  Pennsylvania  Magazine,  which  he 
edited  (May,  1775).  In  his  "Age  of  Reason" 
Paine  declared: 

"The  moral  duty  of  man  consists  in  imitating  the 
moral  goodness  and  beneficence  of  God  in  the  crea- 
tion towards  all  His  creatures.  Seeing,  as  we  do,  the 
goodness  of  God  to  all  men,  we  have  an  example 
calling  upon  all  men  to  practice  the  same  toward 
each,  and  consequently  everything  of  persecution 
and  revenge  between  man  and  man,  and  everything 
of  cruelty  to  animals,  is  a  violation  of  moral  duty." 

This  I  mention  simply  because  I  think  it  may  in- 
terest you.  And  for  the  same  reason  I  will  call 
your  attention  (though  you  may  have  seen  it)  to 
the  papyrus  discovered  in  Egypt  (1904)  by  the  Ox- 
ford explorers,  Rev.  Drs.  Grenfell  and  Hunt,  con- 
taining a  lost  saying  of  Jesus.  The  parentheses  of 
the  discoverers  are  conjectural  and  I  think  one  of 
them  is  erroneous,  but  there  is  no  doubt  about  the 
authenticity  of  the  papyrus    (much  mutilated)  : 

Jesus  said,  (Ye  ask  who  are  these)  that  draw 
us  (to  the  kingdom,  if)  the  kingdom  is  in  heaven.^ 
The  birds  of  the  air  and  all  beasts  that  are  under 
the  earth  or  upon  the  earth,  and  the  fishes  of  the 
sea,  (these  are  they  which  draw)  you,  and  the  king- 
dom of  heaven  is  within  you;  and  whoever  shall 
know  himself  shall  find  it." 

In  the  course  of  my  fifty  years  of  ministry  I 
have  dealt  much  with  the  subject  that  interests 
you  so  greatly.  It  is  complicated  by  the  contention 
of  the  scientific  defenders  of  vivisection  that  de- 
struction of  animals  to  obtain  knowledge — food  for 
the  mind — is  more  moral  than  destruction  for  bod- 
ily food.  And  many  point  out  that  in  attacking 
those  who  destroy  animals  for  ornament  we  strain 
at  the  gnat  while  swallowing  the  camel  of  cruel 
hunting  (of  which  President  Roosevelt  is  so  fond, 


246       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

— just  now  slaughtering  happy  creatures  of  earth 
and  air  in  Virginia,  while  sending  Root  here  to  de- 
nounce the  wickedness  of  Hearst  in  his  name!). 

The  sportsman — in  all  the  world  the  chief  of- 
fender— has  inherited  his  killing  propensity  from 
his  four-footed  ancestors  who  hunt  their  prey,  and 
we  can  hardly  hope  to  civilize  him.  A  more  serious 
difficulty  is  our  European  and  American  inheritance 
of  the  carniverous  habit.  It  is,  generally  speaking, 
impossible  to  exist  without  the  butcher  shop.  I 
have  known  two  or  three  successful  vegetarians, 
but  most  of  these  succumbed  at  their  first  serious 
illness.  A  lovely  maiden  of  my  London  chapel  died 
of  that  experiment,  and  another  is  now  a  skeleton 
doomed  to  die  soon  because,  though  conscious  of  the 
mistake,  she  cannot  take  flesh  on  her  stomach.  I 
sometimes  fear  that  I  was  too  emotional  and  too  in- 
cautious in  preaching  about  'our  poor  relations,  the 
animals.' 

I  sympathize  deeply  with  the  spirit  of  your  im- 
pressive discourse,  and  especially  with  what  you 
say  of  the  destruction  of  bird-life  for  fashionable 
ornamentation,  for  that  may  touch  the  heart  of 
woman.  And  I  see  little  hope  for  true  reformation 
in  any  direction  except  where  the  woman  is  hiding 
her  leaven  in  the  measure  of  our  coarse  masculine 
meal. 

Cordially, 

MoNCURE  D.  Conway. 

When  one  is  taking  interesting  letters  from  his 
table-drawer  and  presenting  them,  so  far  as  con- 
tents are  concerned,  to  readers  with  whom  he  has 
no  personal  acquaintance  and  who  will  give  for 
them  in  return  nothing  beyond  the  paltry  price 
of  the    book    in    which    they    are    printed,  it  is 


HOLOGRAPHS  247 

surely  right  for  him  to  select  the  letters  that 
are  to  be  sacrificed.  I  say  sacrificed  because 
never  before,  so  far  as  I  know,  were  they  put 
into  print  for  all  the  world  to  read  and  dis- 
cuss. Put  into  print,  they  become  in  a  certain 
sense  the  property  of  all  who  care  to  read  them, 
and  never  again  can  the  nominal  owner  lock  them 
entirely  up  in  that  mysterious  table-drawer  where 
so  many  treasures  repose.  He  may  do  what  he 
will  with  paper  and  ink-scratches,  but  the  thought 
and  feeling  that  give  value  to  the  document  are 
henceforth  and  forever  public  property.  If  then 
I  may  bring  out  what  letters  I  like  most  to  share 
with  my  readers,  let  me  continue  to  press  upon 
their  attention  those  that  interest  us  in  the  bril- 
liant men  and  women  who  lead  the  hosts  of  dis- 
sent in  religious  controversy.  Here  is  a  letter 
from  one  of  the  most  courageous  of  men,  who  was 
at  once  a  profound  scholar  and  a  lover  of  truth, 
and  of  his  race  as  well : 

Liverpool,  Oct.  25,  1845. 
Rev'd  and  dear  Sir: 

I  have  been  inexcusably  long  in  answering  your 
gratifying  and  interesting  letter.  To  the  fault  of 
delay  I  will  not  add  the  offense  of  self-justification 
or  fruitless  apology:  but,  in  reliance  on  your  for- 
bearing disposition,  proceed  at  once  to  the  main 
subject  of  interest  between  us. 

In  your  general  position,  that  mere  textual  con- 
troversy can  never  settle  the  points  at  issue  be- 
tween the  Unitarians  and  their  orthodox  opponents, 
I  certainly  concur.  No  doubt  there  is  a  preliminary 
question  to  be  set  at  rest,  as  to  the  degree  and  kind 


248       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

of  authority  to  be  conceded  to  the  Scriptures,  and  a 
controversy  between  two  parties  secretly  at  vari- 
ance on  this  preliminary  is  an  aimless  battle  of  the 
blind.  That  the  Unitarians  in  general  do  differ 
from  other  churches  on  this  point,  that  they  see  a 
larger  human  element  in  the  sacred  Writings,  that 
they  are  more  prepared  to  acknowledge  the  mani- 
fest discrepancies  in  the  historical  portions,  and  in- 
conclusive reasonings  in  the  doctrinal,  that,  practic- 
ally, their  submission  to  Scripture  is  conditional  on 
its  teaching  no  nonsense,  I  am  fully  persuaded. 
And  believing  this  to  be  their  state  of  mind, — often 
ill-defined  to  themselves, — I  cannot  but  disapprove 
as  insincere  their  professions  of  agreement  with  the 
orthodox  on  everything  except  Interpretation,  their 
appeal  to  the  Scriptures  under  the  misleading  name 
of  the  Word  of  God,  their  affected  horror  at  every- 
one who  plainly  speaks  about  the  Bible  the  truths 
which  they  themselves,  if  they  would  dare  to  con- 
fess it,  privately  hold;  and  the  various  other  arti- 
fices of  theological  convention,  by  which  they  de- 
lude themselves  and  hang  out  false  colors  to  the 
world.  To  this  moral  untruthfulness  and  the  un- 
reality it  gives  to  their  position,  much  more  than 
to  their  errors  and  unsoundness  as  interpreters,  do 
I  attribute  the  small  amount  of  their  success  as  a 
religious  sect.  I  believe  indeed,  with  you,  that  their 
interpretations  of  the  writings  of  the  Apostles  John 
and  Paul  are  altogether  untenable,  and  that,  so 
long  as  the  people  gather  their  theological  faith 
without  discrimination,  from  the  Epistles  and  the 
Fourth  Gospel,  our  doctrines  cannot  prevail. 

But  then  I  am  unable  to  accept  the  other  half  of 
your  proposition;  I  cannot  admit  that,  because  the 
Unitarians,  as  interpreters,  are  wrong,  the  Evangel- 
icals are  right.  If  the  Apostle  Paul  could  come  and 
hear  one  of  Hugh  McNeile's  sermons,  I  am  per- 
suaded  he  would   be  aghast   with  indignation,  and 


HOLOGRAPPIS  249 

protest  vehemently  against  the  wretched  perver- 
sion of  his  letters  to  the  early  churches.  So  long  as 
both  parties  take  for  granted  that  Paul,  with  full 
knowledge  of  the  destinies  of  Christianity  as  the 
religion  of  successive  ages,  wrote  on  the  theory  of 
human  nature  in  its  moral  relations  to  God  and  laid 
down  universal  truths  as  to  the  scheme  of  the  Di- 
vine Government  from  the  Creation  to  the  judg- 
ment, so  long  both  parties  must  go  astray.  No  just 
view  can,  in  my  opinion,  be  reached  till  it  is  remem- 
bered that  the  Apostle  wrote  everything  from  an 
erroneous  assumption  as  to  the  approaching  end  of 
the  world.  This  is  not  a  slight  matter  which  can 
be  put  aside  as  an  incidental  imperfection  in  his 
opinions.  From  its  very  nature,  so  grand,  so  trans- 
porting, it  necessarily  absorbed  everything  into  it, 
tinged  all  his  theory  of  the  Past  and  his  visions  of 
the  Future,  determined  his  estimate  of  Christ's 
mission  and  gave  a  peculiarity  of  the  highest  im- 
portance to  his  sentiments  in  reference  to  the  rela- 
tive position  of  the  Hebrew  and  the  Pagan  worlds. 
From  their  entirely  missing  his  point  of  view,  the 
Evangelicals  appear  to  me  to  be  no  less  completely 
wrong  than  the  Unitarians  in  their  interpretation 
of  Paul.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  publications 
connected  with  the  Liverpool  Controversy  in  1839 
have  attracted  your  attention  at  all,  but  if  they 
have,  you  will  recognise  in  my  present  statements 
the  opinions  more  fully  expressed  in  the  "Fifth 
and  Sixth  Lectures"  of  that  Series.  Though  ques- 
tions of  interpretation  shrink  to  a  very  diminished 
importance  as  soon  as  we  cease  to  stake  our  faith 
upon  them,  a  clear  understanding  of  what  the  Apos- 
tle Paul  really  meant  is  more  than  a  mere  matter 
of  curiosity.  It  is  a  vast  relief  to  men  accustomed 
to  a  Calvinistic  reading  of  the  Epistles  to  discover 
in  them,  without  the  slightest  straining,  a  very  dif- 
ferent system  of  ideas,  and  the  "Sixth  Lecture"  to 


250       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

which  I  refer  has,  I  know,  among  Joseph  Barker's 
people  been  the  means  of  bringing  hundreds  over 
from  the  ranks  of  orthodoxy. 

Still,  no  satisfactory  way  can  be  made  toward 
the  pure  truth  and  the  free  heart  till  the  prevalent 
Bibliolatry  is  overthrown.  And,  for  my  own  part,  I 
have  never  shrunk  and  hope  I  never  shall  shrink 
from  taking  my  little  part  in  the  iconoclastic  work. 
At  the  same  time,  I  so  heartily  reverence  all  sincere 
and  earnest  religion  that  the  simply  destructive  pro- 
cedure of  controversy  is  only  half  welcome  to  me, — 
performed  with  some  reluctance.  I  am  always 
ready  for  it  in  self-defence,  but  dislike  it  as  a  meas- 
ure of  aggression.  To  draw  forth  the  permanent 
elements  of  Christianity  from  the  Scriptures;  to 
impart  to  men  such  a  consciousness  of  the  adapta- 
tion of  these  to  their  nature  that  all  doubt  of  their 
sufficiency  shall  become  impossible;  to  make  no  dis- 
guise about  the  temporary  and  questionable  charac- 
ter of  all  the  rest ;  to  attack  only  inordinate  claims 
set  up  for  it  when  requisite, — but  for  the  most  part 
to  let  those  claims  die  out  by  forming  men's  spiritual 
and  moral  taste  on  better  models  and  by  the  constant 
presence  of  higher  ideas ;  this  appears  to  me  to  be 
the  true  course  for  those  who  love  Christianity  for 
what  it  is  more  than  they  dislike  its  counterfeits 
for  what  they  are  not.  Bigots  of  all  classes  will  refuse 
a  hearing  to  those  who — with  or  without  a  name — 
boldly  challenge  their  favorite  opinions;  and  all 
other  men — such  at  least  is  my  cheering  faith — are 
more  readily  drawn  to  noble  and  true  ideas  than 
driven  from  mean  and  false  ones.  What  compari- 
son, for  instance,  can  there  be  between  the  amaz- 
ing influence  of  Channing  on  the  sentiments  of  his 
age  and  the  most  brilliant  success  that  could  attend 
on  any  writings  that  stopped  with  the  disproof  of 
prevalent  theological  errors  and  superstitions?  I 
think,  however,  you  will  admit  that  I  am  not  charge- 


HOLOGRAPHS  251 

able  with  reserve  on  the  question  of  Inspiration, 
and  that  especially  in  the  "Second  Lecture  of  the 
Liverpool  Controversy"  ('The  Bible,  what  it  is,  and 
what  it  is  not"),  the  very  sentiments  to  which  you 
attach  importance  are  plainly  advanced. 

At  all  events,  my  dear  Sir,  I  am  greatly  indebted 
to  you  for  your  valuable  suggestions.  Possibly  if  I 
were  a  man  of  leisure,  I  should  put  your  sugges- 
tions at  once  into  practice.  But  my  course  of  la- 
bour as  minister  of  a  large  congregation,  as  Pro- 
fessor in  a  public  college,  as  an  Editor  of  a  Review, 
as,  not  least,  father  of  a  large  family  that  I  must 
educate  at  home,  is  very  much  marked  out  for  me; 
and  I  must  hope  by  faithfulness  in  these  several 
callings  to  do  incidentall}'^  some  small  portion  of 
the  good  work  which  your  kind  opinion  would  as- 
sign to  me  by  practice  or  precept. 

Believe  me  Rev.  and  dear  Sir, 
Yours  with  true  regard, 

James  Martineau. 

To  the  Rev.  Geo.  Crabbe. 

Not  all  men  have  Dr.  Martineau's  mind;  few 
are  gifted  with  his  ability  or  dowered  with  his 
wealth  of  scholarship.  Yet  earnest  men  are  found 
in  every  religious  faith,  and  nowhere  shall  we 
look  in  vain  for  brave  souls  intent  on  knowing 
the  truth.  Here  is  a  letter  written  by  a  man  un- 
known to  fame.  I  spread  it  before  my  readers 
not  because  of  any  interest  in  the  writer,  but  be- 
cause of  the  kindly  and  beautiful  spirit  reflected 
in  every  word,  and  also  because  it  seems  to  me 
to  fit  into  the  t.  ain  of  thought  awakened  by  the 
letters  already  given: 


252       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

My  dear  Friend: 

The  questions  contained  in  yours  of  the  nine- 
teenth and  which  cause  you  so  much  mental  and 
moral  unrest  are,  in  my  opinion,  unanswerable  from 
a  purely  scientific  point  of  view.  The  question  of 
Immortality  is  open  upon  every  side  to  doubt  and 
uncertainty.  What  Prof.  Fiske  has  said  in  his 
"Life  Everlasting"  appears  to  me  to  be  the  most 
helpful  and  hopeful,  if  not  absolutely  the  best  sin- 
gle treatise  in  the  direction  indicated  in  your  letter. 
My  friend,  a  short  time  before  his  death,  told  me 
that  he  regarded  the  question  of  Immortality  as  one 
of  probability  only.  He  thought  it  amounted  to 
nothing  more  than  a  great  and  alluring  hope.  The 
hope  when  entertained  by  noble  souls  is  noble  and 
to  be  encouraged:  when  held  by  a  rude  and  selfish 
spirit  it  is  base  and  of  no  value  whatever.  I  share 
in  some  degree  his  uncertainty,  though  I  do  not  al- 
ways possess  his  calm  and  tender  trust  in  the  good- 
ness of  the  final  outcome.  There  are  some  excellent 
reasons  for  believing  in  the  deathlessness  of  man's 
spiritual  nature,  and  those  reasons  seem  to  me  to 
rather  gain  than  lose  as  the  years  go  by.  May  it 
not  be  that  the  noble  and  divine  part  of  our  race 
will  survive  the  shock  of  death,  if,  indeed,  there  is 
any  shock  in  death?  Why  should  the  great  multi- 
tude who  have  no  worthy  use  for  the  few  years  they 
have  now  and  here,  find  themselves  possessors  of  an 
endless  existence?  Harriet  Martineau,  when  dying, 
said:  "I  have  had  a  noble  share  of  life,  and  I  do 
not  ask  for  any  other  life."  But  I  should  say  that 
Miss  Martineau  was  just  the  kind  of  woman  to 
make  good  use  of  an  eternity,  and  I  cannot  but  en- 
quire, "What  about  the  millions  of  men  and  women 
who  have  not  had  a  noble  share  of  life?" 

I  am  unable  to  answer  your  questions.  All  you 
sav  about  Jesus  I  both  believe  and    feel.      There 


HOLOGRAPHS  253 

have  been  times  in  my  life  when  the  thought  of  him 
saved  me  from  absolute  despair,  and,  it  may  be, 
from  suicide.  To  that  extent,  at  least,  I  may  speak 
of  Jesus  as  my  Saviour.  His  ideal  of  life  is  the 
highest  of  which  we  have  any  knowledge.  His  life 
as  recorded  in  the  Gospels  is  the  sweetest,  the  holi- 
est, and  in  every  way  the  best  this  world  has  ever 
seen.  There  is  a  sense  in  which  I  worship  him. 
His  memory  and  recorded  words  I  love.  Perhaps 
I  thus  feel  because  of  early  religious  training,  for 
I  had,  as  you  know,  a  Christian  father  and  a 
mother  who  prayed  for  me  every  day.  I  can  never 
get  away  from  the  power  of  my  mother's  life  of 
faith.  It  holds  me  fast  as  nothing  else  can.  But 
in  all  this  there  is,  I  am  fully  aware,  no  satisfying 
and  substantial  foundation  for  religious  certitude; 
nor  is  there  any  approach  to  an  answer  for  the 
great  question,  "If  a  man  die,  shall  he  live  again.''" 

My  dear  friend,  we  are  neither  of  us  young,  and 
very  soon  if  there  is  any  other  side  we  shall  know 
it;  if  there  is  not,  we  shall  not  survive  to  regret  it. 
We  can  only  conjecture  with  regard  to  eternity,  but 
we  do  know  something  about  time  and  the  life  that 
now  is.  We  know  that  truth  is  better  than  a  lie, 
that  purity  it  better  than  lust,  that  kindness  is 
better  than  cruelty,  and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  Ten 
Commandments  and  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount. 
What  more  do  we  require?  If  we  are  good  and  do 
good  we  live  to  a  worthy  end,  whether  there  be  any 
life  beyond  or  not. 

I  do  not  think  Col.  Ingersoll  can  help  you.  I 
had  once  a  long  conversation  with  Ingersoll  to  no 
purpose  whatever.  He  is  a  kind  and  good  man,  but 
quite  too  much  of  a  party  pleader  and  stump 
speaker.  He  treats  spiritual  matters  just  as  he 
deals  with  political  questions,  and  there  all  his 
power  of  helping  troubled  hearts  and  consciences 
ends. 


254        EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

No,  your  questions  cannot  be  answered,  but  you 
can  sit  at  the  feet  of  the  noblest  of  all  our  race,  and 
receive  his  spirit  of  love  and  service.  We  can  both 
of  us  follow  Jesus,  and  that,  in  a  poor,  blind  way,  I 
am  endeavoring  to  do.  We  shall  make  no  mistake 
if  we  cast  in  our  lot  with  him.  There  may  be  an- 
other life  and  then,  again,  there  may  be  no  such  life 
— we  cannot  know,  but  we  can  do  our  duty,  and 
there,  I  suppose,  is  the  end  of  the  whole  matter. 

I  wish  I  could  help  you,  but  I  cannot  help  my- 
self along  the  line  you  indicate,  and  surely  I  am 
powerless  to  cast  much  light  on  the  way  over  which 
we  must  go. 

I  am  truly  and  ever  your  friend, 

Henry  C.  Appleton. 

Again  I  open  the  little  drawer  in  my  library 
table,  and  extract  a  letter  by  Theodore  Parker : 

Please  do  not  show  this  page  to  anyone:  it  might 
hurt  the  feelings  of  some  of  the  parties. 

Dear  Sir: 

This  is  a  list  of  the  best  lecturers  in  and  about 
Boston.  I  put  them  in  their  order  of  merit,  as  it 
seems  to  me: 

R.  W.  Emerson  (the  King  of  Lecturers). 

Wendell  Phillips  (anti-slavery,  humane,  schol- 
arly, eloquent,  and  beautiful  in  matter  and  manner). 

Prof.  H.  D.  Ropes  (a  scientific  man,  learned, 
exact,  humorous,  generous,  liberal-minded.  He 
knows  everything  with  great  power  of  making 
clear). 

E.  P.  Whipple  (literary,  brilliant,  witty,  humor- 
ous. He  is  a  keen  man,  on  the  fence  between  the 
"Hunkers"  and  the  "other  party"). 

Dr.  O.  W.  Holmes  (literary,  brilliant,  funny, 
satirical;  a  little  malignant,   poetical,  nice,   sharp; 


HOLOGRAPHS  255 

born,  bred,  and  living  on  the  "Hunker"  side  of  the 
fence). 

Then  there  are  persons  like  Rev.  T.  W.  Higgin- 
son  of  Newburyport,  INIass.,  Rev.  Samuel  Johnson 
of  Salem,  Mass.,  and  Wm.  P.  Atkinson,  Esq.,  of 
Brookline,  Mass.  There  is  one  that  I  ought  to  men- 
tion with  those  on  the  other  side  of  the  sheet:  viz. 

Rev.  A.  L.  Stone  of  Boston.  He  is  the  minister 
of  a  celebrated  church  in  the  city.  He  is  orthodox, 
able,  generous,  liberal,  a  good  scholar,  and  quite 
eloquent.  I  do  not  know  him,  but  gather  this  from 
report. 

I  do  not  find  anyone  to  deliver  the  lectures  on 
Practical  Mechanics.  We  have  heard  no  such  thing 
in  the  English  language.  But  Prof.  H.  D.  Ropes 
I  think  would  do  the  thing  better  than  any  man  in 
America,  if  not  too  busy  with  his  "Report  on  the 
Geology  of  Pennsylvania."  He  has  the  knowledge, 
the  power  of  presenting  it,  and  the  desire  to  spread 
the  results  of  science  before  the  working  men  to  a 
greater  degree  than  any  other  man  that  I  know  of. 
H  you  will  write  him  a  letter  telling  as  well  as  may 
be  what  you  wish,  I  think  he  might  lecture  for  you. 
Truly  yours, 

Theodore  Parker. 
S.  F.  Seymour,  Esq. 

It  is  interesting  to  know  that  John  Fiske 
wished  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  to  disown  his 
little  book  on  "Tobacco  and  Alcohol'*  which  he 
published  in  1869  through  Leypoldt  and  Holt. 
Dr.  Moncure  D.  Conway  told  me  that  Mr.  Fiske 
in  the  closing  years  of  his  life  endeavored  to  work 
his  way  back  to  the  Christian  faith  which  he  had 
repudiated.  How  great  was  his  success  I  do  not 
know,  but  certainly  two  steps  were  taken,  as  Mr. 


256       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Fiske  supposed,  in  that  direction, — he  delivered 
and  pubhshed  his  lecture  on  "Life  Everlasting," 
to  which  reference  is  made  in  Mr.  Appleton's  let- 
ter, and  he  requested  that  among  the  books  com- 
prising his  collected  works  the  "Tobacco  and 
Alcohol"  should  not  have  a  place.  The  little  book 
is  from  a  scientific  point  of  view  quite  orthodox, 
if  Professor  Miinsterberg  may  be  allowed  to  rep- 
resent either  science  or  orthodoxy.  There  is  no 
reason  to  think  that  Mr.  Fiske  wished  to  unsay 
anything  printed  in  "Tobacco  and  Alcohol,"  but 
it  does  appear  that  under  the  influence  of  an 
awakened  conscience  he  feared  that  the  influence 
of  his  book  might  be  found  upon  the  side  of  in- 
temperance, for  its  purpose  was  to  prove  that  "the 
coming  man  will  drink  wine,"  and  that  "it  does 
pay  to  smoke."  The  book  was  a  fierce  and  most 
uncharitable  onslaught  upon  Mr.  James  Parton, 
who  had  published  a  very  commonplace  and  not 
over-interesting  book  called  "Smoking  and  Drink- 
ing," in  which  tobacco  and  alcohol  are  repre- 
sented as  being  responsible  for  most  of  the  wick- 
edness and  misery  of  our  suff'ering  world.  This 
is  the  letter  which  Fiske  wrote  in  1893  to  Lynds 
E.  Jones,  and  which  represents  his  final  feeling 
with  regard  to  the  book  under  discussion.  As  the 
letter  is  brief  and  has,  so  far  as  I  know,  appeared 
up  to  the  present  time  nowhere  else,  it  may  not 
be  unwise  to  take  it  from  the  drawer  for  the  en- 
tertainment of  my  readers: 


HOLOGRAPHS  25T 

Cambridge,  Oct.  £6,  1893. 
Lynds  E.  Jones,  Esq., 
Dear  Sir: 
The  article  in  Appleton's  "Cyclopaedia  of 
American  Biography,"  Vol.  II.,  p.  4G9,  was  written 
by  myself,  and  contains  all  needed  facts,  except  as 
regards  the  list  of  my  published  works.  If  you  give 
such  a  list  at  all,  please  omit  "Tobacco  and  Alco- 
hol";  omit  the  statement  that  I  am  publishing  a 
"History  of  the  American  People";  add  "The  Crit- 
ical Period  of  American  History,"  Boston,  1888; 
"The  Beginnings  of  New  England,"  Boston,  1880; 
"The  War  of  Independence,  for  Young  People," 
Boston,  1889;  "Civil  Government  in  the  United 
States,"  Boston,  1891;  "The  Discovery  of  Amer- 
ica," 2  vols.,  Boston,  1892. 

Yours  very  truly, 

John  Fiske. 

To  a  letter  of  inquiry  addressed  to  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Company,  a  reply  was  returned  under 
date  of  June  2d,  1905,  from  which  the  follow- 
ing excerpt  is  taken: 

We  wish  to  thank  you  for  the  information  which 
you  send  regarding  Fiske's  "Tobacco  and  Alcohol." 
We  know  of  this  Uttle  book.  Prof.  Fiske  made  out 
the  list  of  his  writings  which  he  desired  to  have  in- 
cluded in  the  Standard  Edition  which  we  publish, 
and  he  did  not  desire  to  have  the  little  book  you 
refer  to  perpetuated  for  obvious  reasons.  It  was 
therefore  left  out.  Our  edition  is  the  only  author- 
ized standard  edition,  and  as  we  stated  before,  its 
contents  were  arranged  by  Prof.  Fiske,  and  it  was 
his  intention  that  it  should  be  regarded  as  the  au- 
thorized edition  of  his  writings. 

With  best  regards,  we  are 

Yours  very  truly, 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Company. 


258       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

The  publishers  do  not  say  just  what  is  to  be 
understood  by  those  two  words  "obvious  reason," 
but  guided  by  Conway's  statement  the  meaning 
can  be  found,  I  think,  with  no  great  difficulty. 
Yet  there  have  been  and  there  still  may  be  found 
men  of  even  greater  learning  than  was  the  pos- 
session of  Mr.  Fiske,  and  men  whose  consciences 
are  quite  as  sensitive  as  was  the  newly-stirred 
conscience  of  the  author  of  "Tobacco  and  Alco- 
hol" who  have  used  and  who  still  use  both  tobacco 
and  alcohol.  Professor  James  has  represented  al- 
coholic stimulation  as  standing  to  the  poor  and 
unlettered  in  the  place  of  symphony  concerts  and 
literature,  but  he  adds :  "It  is  a  part  of  the  deeper 
mystery  and  tragedy  of  life  that  whiffs  and 
gleams  of  something  that  we  immediately  recog- 
nize as  excellent  should  be  vouchsafed  to  so  many 
of  us  only  in  the  fleeting  earlier  phases  of  what 
in  the  totality  is  such  a  degrading  poison."  Pro- 
fessor Miinsterberg  tells  us  that  "the  master- 
pieces of  music  and  poetry  which  are  beyond  the 
comprehension  of  the  poor  and  unlettered  have 
been  the  result  of  the  use  of  alcohol."  There  is 
absolutely  no  period  in  history,  as  there  is  abso- 
lutely no  nation  upon  the  earth,  in  which  we  do 
not  find  evidence  of  this  dependence  upon  stimu- 
lants and  narcotics.  It  has  been  estimated  that  of 
alcoholic  liquors  there  is  an  aggregate  product 
every  year  enough,  if  collected  into  one  sea,  to 
float  the  united  navies  of  the  world.  The  esti- 
mate is,  I  think,  to  be  doubted,  but  certainly  the 


HOLOGRAPHS  259 

amount  is  far  beyond  the  thought  of  most  of 
those  who  give  the  matter  consideration.  Coffee 
leaves  are  taken  in  the  form  of  infusion  by  two 
milhons  of  the  world's  inhabitants,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  greater  use  of  the  coffee  berry.  Para- 
guay and  Chinese  teas  are  consumed  by  more 
than  five  hundred  millions  of  our  race.  Opium  is 
taken  by  about  four  hundred  millions.  Every 
year  about  865,000,000  pounds  of  tobacco  are 
consumed.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  cannot  but  feel 
sorry  that  Fiske's  little  book  on  "Tobacco  and 
Alcohol"  is  not  included  in  the  final  and  other- 
wise complete  set  of  his  wonderfully  interesting 
and  valuable  works. 

Here  is  a  letter  from  Horace  Greeley  that, 
while  it  has  little  other  value,  is  of  considerable 
importance  as  a  specimen  of  Mr.  Greeley's  indif- 
ference to  some  of  the  common  refinements  of 
civilized  life: 

New  York,  Sept.  27,  1852. 
Sir: 

I  haven't  the  honor  of  knowing  you  from  a  side 
of  sole-leather,  and  cannot  say  that  your  epistolary 
exhibitions  have  begotten  in  me  any  fervent  desire 
to  make  your  acquaintance.  I  know  nothing  of 
your  essay  on  "Democracy,"  and  I  think  I  never 
saw  it,  nor  heard  of  it  save  in  your  letter. 

I  beseech  you,  if  you  suppose  me  in  any  manner 
your  debtor,  to  collect  whatever  amount  may  be 
due  you  forthwith.  Don't  let  it  rest  an  hour,  for 
though  I  am  not  one  penny  in  your  debt,  I  desire 
to  have  any  suspicion  that  I  might  be,  dispelled  as 


260       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

soon  as  possible.  So  bother  me  with  no  more  let- 
ters (as  none  will  be  answered),  but  trot  out  your 
bears. 

Yours, 

Horace  Greeley. 

Here  is  a  note  from  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  ad- 
dressed to  the  Rev.  John  Sullivan  Dwight,  who 
was  for  some  time  a  Unitarian  preacher,  and  who 
later  edited  "Dwight's  Journal  of  Music."  Mr. 
Dwight  was  a  musical  critic  of  exceptional  abil- 
ity, and  will  be  remembered  as  the  author  of  a 
little  poem,  the  first  stanza  of  which  runs  thus: 

"Sweet  is  the  pleasure 
Itself  cannot  spoil ! 
Is  not  true  leisure 
One  with  true  toil?" 

Mr.  Beecher's  letter  has  in  it  all  the  directness 
and  wit  for  which  the  great  Brooklyn  preacher 
was  so  distinguished: 

Brooklyn,  March  23rd,  1865. 
My  dear  Mr.  Dwight: 

I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  reply. 
It  was  useful.     As  to  Mr.  Thayer: 

1st.  What  would  he  consider  a  good  salary.''  Let 
him  say  plainly. 

2nd.  To  what  extent  is  he  willing  to  do  the  mu- 
sical work  of  our  congregation?  i.  e.,  the  care  and 
training  of  the  children,  the  conduct  of  our  reli- 
gious week-night  meetings,  and  the  training  of  our 
congregation  in  singing. 

In  other  words,  would  he  make  an  enthusiasm 
of  our  work,  or  would  he  hunger  and  thirst  after 


HOLOGRAPHS  261 

Philharmonic  grandeur  and  a  National  Superhuman 
Choral  Pentecostal  Society  for  the  Musical  Regen- 
eration of  the  World? 

No  man  can  be  the  musical  pastor  of  a  church 
without  undertaking  a  good  deal  of  work. 

Is  he  apt  and  influential  with  men  in  commu- 
nity? Our  congregation  is  large,  and  wrecks  any 
man  who  has  no  general  in  him. 

I  am  truly  yours, 

H.  W.  Beecher. 

P.  S.  Can  you,  by  asking  a  question,  tell  me  the 
standing  of  Mr.  Wilder  of  Bangor,  Me.?  He  will 
be  known  among  musical  convention  men. 

H.  W.  B. 

The  body  of  John  Howard  Payne,  or  so  much 
of  it  as  could  be  found,  was  in  1883  removed 
from  the  old  grave  in  Tunis,  and  deposited  in 
Oak  Hill  Cemetery  at  Georgetown.  The  poet  of 
"Home,  Sweet  Home"  died  April  1st,  1852.  Lit- 
tle of  the  body  was  found  after  those  thirty 
years  of  burial,  but  the  public  was  led  to  believe 
that  the  entire  skeleton  was  obtained,  and  that  it 
was  brought  to  America.  Even  the  bones  had 
become  fine  dust.  A  little  gilt  used  in  the  con- 
struction of  the  epaulets  and  the  gilt  stripes  that 
were  on  the  sides  of  the  trousers,  with  a  button  or 
two  of  metal  and  a  mere  spicule  of  bone,  were  all 
that  was  found.  The  real  grave  of  Payne  was 
and  still  is  upon  the  other  side  of  the  ocean, 
where  it  should  have  remained  undesecrated. 

Mr.  Horace  Taylor  was  at  the  time  of  the 
opening  of  Payne's  grave  the  Consul  at  Mar- 


262       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

seilles.  Acting  under  instruction  from  the  State 
Department,  he  forwarded  the  body,  or  so  much 
of  it  as  could  be  secured,  to  the  United  States. 
An  article  in  the  New  York  Evening  Post  of  Oct. 
21,  1901,  describing  Mr.  Taylor's  part  in  the 
removing  of  the  body,  did  what  it  could  to  unde- 
ceive the  public  in  the  matter  of  the  exhumation. 
I  addressed  Mr.  Taylor  a  letter  on  the  subject, 
and  received  from  him  in  return  a  letter  of  some 
interest  as  showing  the  exact  condition  of  the  re- 
mains. That  letter  is  here  given,  and  its  lesson 
is,  I  think,  this,  that  the  graves  of  distinguished 
men  should  not  be  disturbed  after  time  has  hal- 
lowed them: 

Treasury  Department,  Washington,  D.  C. 
October  26,    1901. 
My  dear  Sir: 

I  am  in  receipt  of  your  letter  of  October  23rd 
with  reference  to  the  disinterment  of  the  remains 
of  John  Howard  Payne  as  reported  in  an  article  in 
a  late  number  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post.  The 
article  in  question  was  not  altogether  accurate. 
The  correspondent  told  me  he  had  written  it  sev- 
eral months  ago,  but  it  had  been  mislaid  or  for  some 
reason  not  published  until  now.  It  is  not,  as 
stated,  true  that  I  was  present  at  the  time  the  cof- 
fin containing  Payne's  remains  was  opened,  al- 
though my  son  was  there  and  Mr.  Reade,  an  offi- 
cial of  the  British  Government,  and  they  reported 
to  me  that  the  remains  had  substantially  gone  to 
dust  and  little  of  the  skeleton  was  left.  The  most 
conspicuous  features  of  the  remains  were  the  gold 
buttons  and  traces  of  the  gold  leaf  that  had  orna- 
mented the  uniform  in  which  he  was   buried.     It 


HOLOGRAPHS  263 

was  thought  desirable  that  such  of  his  remains  as 
were  left  should  be  properly  encased  in  a  suitable 
casket  covered  with  lead,  outside  of  which  was  put 
a  hardwood  coffin,  and  a  strong  box  still  outside  of 
these.  Enclosed  in  this  way  the  remains  were  sent 
by  me  to  New  York,  as  per  instructions  from  the 
State  Department. 

Very  truly  yours, 

H.  A.  Taylor. 

I  treasure  among  my  mementos  of  "the  irre- 
pressible conflict"  which,  when  I  was  a  youth, 
filled  all  the  land  with  wild  disorder,  this  half  of 
a  letter  the  poet  Hayne  addressed  to  some  one 
dear  to  him,  but  to  me  unknown: 

Can  we  ever  forgive  the  infernal  people  who 
have  reduced  us  to  such  wretched  vassalage .'' 

My  chief  delight  in  editing  the  "Southern  Opin- 
ion" is  to  have  some  opportunity  of  abusing  the 
Puritan,  and,  indeed,  the  whole  Yankee  Race. 

I  know  not  how  long  this  may  be  permitted. 
Some  fine  morning  we  may  all  be  quietly  clapped 
in  a  Yankee  Bastile!  But  what  does  it  matter? 
Life  is  worth  but  little  now,  and  I  don't  see  that 
we  need  care  very  particularly  about  consequences. 

Pray  give  our  united  love  to  Cousin  Lucy,  and 
kiss  "Douschka"  for  us.  Willie  often  speaks  of  his 
"Cousin  Francis."  He  has  grown  much,  and  is 
fond  of  his  books. 

Always  Faithfully, 

Paul  H.  Hayne. 

There  certainly  can  be  no  doubt  in  any  mind 
after  a  glance  at  the  above  fragment  that  the 
gifted  poet  of  the  Sunny  South  was  quite  un- 
reconstructed. 


264       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

The  next  letter  is  a  long  one,  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  its  contents  will  justify  an  unabridged 
transcript : 

My  dear  Mr.  Wilde: 

How  shall  I  apologize  to  you  for  my  long  neg- 
lect to  answer  your  kind  and  so  highly  prized  let- 
ter of  May  nth?  Shall  I  tell  you  that  this  is  the 
third  attempt  I  have  made  to  write  to  you,  and  that 
sickness  (not  my  own)  interrupted  the  first,  that 
a  fit  of  despondency  or  the  blues  broke  up  the  sec- 
ond attempt,  and  caused  me  to  tear  in  pieces  the 
vile  and  unworthy  answer  to  your  beautiful  letter, 
and,  finally,  my  wife's  confinement  prevented  an- 
other effort  to  write  from  being  made  until  I  could 
assure  you  of  her  health  as  well  as  of  my  own. 

I  can  say  now  that  we  are  all  well  and  in  good 
spirits;  and  in  the  word  "all"  I  wish  you  to  include 
another  little  daughter  whom  we  intend  to  name 
"Florence,"  as  my  wife  thinks  it  will  jingle  well 
with  Powers.  She  appears  to  be  a  fine  sample  of 
what  may  be  done  in  Tuscany,  and  I  might  fill  sev- 
eral pages  with  descriptions  of  her  various  excel- 
lencies. But  as  I  am  writing  to  a  grave  philoso- 
pher, and  not  to  his  sister,  I  shall  forbear.  My 
wife  at  this  moment  is  telling  me  that  she  will  write, 
and  that  Miss  Wilde  shall  have  all  about  this  prod- 
igy even  to  the  most  minute  description  of  her  toe 
nails.  This  account  she  intends  to  insert  in  her 
reply  to  the  letter  she  received  from  your  sister 
soon  after  I  received  yours. 

I  received  a  letter  full  of  kind  expressions  from 
Col.  Preston  not  long  ago,  and  I  answered  it  im- 
mediately and  assured  him  of  his  mistake  in  sup- 
posing I  had  not  written  to  him  for  a  whole  year. 
It  is  true,  however,  that  I  did  not  write  so  often 
as  I  should  have  done.     The   truth    is,    I    write    to 


HOLOGRAPHS  265 

him  always  with  embarrassment,  for  I  know  not 
how  to  express  the  high  sense  I  entertain  of  his 
noble  conduct  towards  me.  I  fear  to  give  utterance 
to  my  thought  lest  my  sincerity  be  suspected,  and 
then  if  I  say  too  little  I  may  appear  unmindful  of 
his  goodness.  I  feel  much  more  at  ease  while  I 
think  of  doing  something  for  him  than  I  do  while 
writing  to  him.  This  is  all  wrong,  I  know  very  well, 
yet  I  cannot  help  myself.  I  must  feel  so.  But  in 
future  I  am  resolved  to  write  to  him  freely.  I 
need  not  say  that  his  letter  placed  my  mind  at  ease 
in  regard  to  pecuniary  matters. 

I  am  now  in  another  studio.  It  is  near  the  Gol- 
doni  Theatre,  and  I  think  it  the  finest  studio  in 
Florence.  The  rooms  are  large  and  high  and  well 
lighted,  so  that  my  statue  appears  to  much  greater 
advantage  than  in  the  old  studio.  The  statue  is  not 
yet  finished  in  clay,  but  there  remains  now  but  little 
to  be  done,  and  I  think  I  may  safely  say  it  has 
been  much  improved  since  you  saw  it.  There  have 
been  no  material  alterations  made,  but  instead 
slight  changes  and  modifications  over  the  whole  of 
it  so  that  the  improvements  appear  as  greater  reali- 
ties of  flesh  and  movement  of  the  parts.  All  this 
you  perceive  in  a  moment  on  looking  at  it.  It  was 
a  nice  thing  to  convey  the  statue  from  the  old  stu- 
dio to  the  new  one,  and  I  constructed  a  machine  for 
the  purpose  which  answered  perfectly.  It  was 
made  on  the  principle  of  the  universal  joint,  so  that 
the  statue  hung,  as  it  were,  like  a  pendulum,  and 
swayed  gently  in  every  direction  according  to  the 
irregular  motion  of  the  four  men  who  bore  the  whole 
concern  on  their  shoulders.  I  believe  this  to  have 
been  the  first  instance  of  carrying  a  clay  model  of 
a  standing  statue  the  distance  of  half  a  mile  with- 
out the  slightest  injury. 

Col.  Thomson  informed  me  lately  that  it  was 
possible  you  might  not  conclude  to  return  here,  he 


^66       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

r 

having  received  a  letter  from  which  he  so  inferred. 
This  information  brought  on  another  fit  of  the 
blues,  for  I  had  regarded  your  coming  back  to  Flor- 
ence as  a  thing  to  be  counted  on,  and  I  had  looked 
forward  to  the  time  of  your  return  with  confidence 
and  extreme  pleasure. 

I  have  lately  received  a  letter  from  the  son  of 
Mr.  Van  Buren  in  reply  to  one  written  by  me  to 
his  father  on  the  subject  of  the  bust  sent  to  him  to 
the  care  of  Messrs.  Goodhue  &  Co.  In  this  letter 
Mr.  Van  Buren  authorizes  his  son  to  say  that  he 
had  no  knowledge  of  ever  having  given  me  an  order 
for  his  bust.  Judge  of  my  surprise  on  reading  such 
a  statement.  Fortunately  Mr.  Clevenger  is  a  wit- 
ness to  Mr.  Van  Buren's  acknowledgement  of  hav- 
ing given  me  an  order,  and  at  several  different 
times,  while  he  (Mr.  C.)  was  modeling  another 
bust  of  Mr.  Van  Buren.  So  I  took  the  evidence  of 
Mr.  Clevenger  in  writing,  and  I  also  wrote  myself 
a  statement  of  the  facts  as  they  occurred,  and  sent 
all  in  a  letter  to  Messrs.  Goodhue  &  Co.,  with  di- 
rections to  publish  them,  and  have  the  bust  sold  at 
public  auction  in  New  York.  Mr.  Van  Buren's 
letter  and  my  statement  and  Mr.  Clevenger's  evi- 
dence together  place  the  character  of  Mr.  Van 
Buren  in  rather  an  unfavorable  light, — that  is,  if 
the  words  of  two  humble  individuals  like  Mr.  Clev- 
enger and  myself  will  stand  against  the  denial  of 
an  ex-President  of  the  United  States.  As  you  will 
most  probably  see  the  correspondence  in  some 
newspaper,  I  will  not  repeat  it  here.  I  merely  men- 
tion that  he  gave  me  the  order  verbally  at  the 
time  when  he  was  about  going  into  the  presidential 
chair,  and  he  received  my  letter,  as  his  son  states, 
announcing  the  arrival  of  the  bust  just  as  he  was 
leaving  it,  and  this  may  account  for  his  forgetful- 
ness  as  well  as  for  his  patronage  of  the  fine  arts. 
Mr.  Van  Buren  sat,  in  the  first  instance,  at  my  re- 


HOLOGRAPHS  26T 

quest,  and  it  was  a  long  time  after  that  he  ordered 
a  marble  copy  of  the  bust.  He  said,  "Let  me  pay 
you  for  it,"  and  I  took  him  at  his  word,  and  charged 
him  perhaps  a  trifle  over  expenses — the  charge  was 
$500. 

Mr.  Greenough  has  sent  off  the  Washington,  but 
stays  here  himself,  which  I  wonder  at,  for  I  think 
he  should  be  there  to  look  to  the  placing  of  it.  Col. 
Thomson  has  left  here  for  Paris  on  business,  and 
Greenough  is  about  traveling  with  his  wife  on  a 
tour  of  pleasure  to  Milan,  Munich,  etc.  Gov.  Ever- 
ett is  here,  but  not  in  the  city.  Clevenger  and  I 
are  "cocks  of  the  walk"  among  the  Americans  you 
know  here.  Mr.  Baldwin  is  living  at  a  villa  outside 
of  Florence. 

Lady  Bulwer  and  Mrs.  Trollope  have  just  left 
Florence  for  the  baths  of  Lucca.  I  saw  but  little 
of  them.  Lady  Bulwer  became  a  great  favorite 
with  Mr.  Greenough.  She  is  a  fine  looking  woman, 
as  to  person,  with  rosy  cheeks  and  flashing  eyes. 
She  tells  pretty  hard  things  about  her  husband,  but 
as  I  heard  her  say  that  she  had  been  stung  by  a 
wasp  one  day,  by  a  bee  on  the  next,  and  last  night 
had  been  bitten  by  a  tarantula — all  in  Florence — I 
thought  it  not  difficult  for  Lady  Bulwer  to  "stretch 
it  a  little"  in  her  stories,  especially  as  a  tarantula 
here  happens  to  be  toothless. 

Mr.  Peale  has  not  yet  sent  me  the  rattle-snake's 
head,  but  do  not  give  yourself  any  trouble  about  it, 
as  I  can  obtain  engravings  which  with  recollections 
will  enable  me  to  do  without  it. 

If  there  be  anything  in  which  I  can  serve  you 
do  let  me  know  of  it  and  always  rely  on  me  as  one 
ever  ready  and  eager  to  be  of  use  to  you.  I  have 
written  this  hastily  for  fear  of  another  breaking 
off;  and  I  dare  not  look  it  over  for  fear  of  being 
tempted  to  burn  it,  it  is  written  so  badly  in  all  re- 
spects.    I  will  do  better  in  the  future.     My  wife 


268       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

joins  me  in  best  regards  to  your  sister  and  to  your- 
self. 

Believe  me  ever  truly  yours, 

Hiram  Powers. 
Florence,  July  12th,  1841. 

There  is  good  reason  for  believing  that  Pow- 
ers was  mistaken  in  thinking  that  ex-President 
Van  Buren  had  given  him  an  order.  Van  Buren 
was  regarded  in  his  day  as  a  very  trickish  and 
unreliable  politician,  but  his  private  honesty  was 
never,  so  far  as  I  know,  seriously  challenged.  We 
are  easily  deceived.  It  is  quite  possible  that  both 
Powers  and  his  friend  Clevenger  were  wrong, 
though  they  were  sure  they  had  heard  the  order 
given  which  Mr.  Van  Buren  declared  he  never 
gave  and  never  intended  to  give.  I  know  a  paral- 
lel case  in  which  a  brother  and  sister  both  profess 
to  have  witnessed  an  engagement  which  they  rep- 
resent another  brother  to  have  made,  and  which 
to  my  certain  knowledge  he  did  not  make.  So 
sure  are  they  of  what  is  not  true  that  nothing 
short  of  a  miracle  could  undeceive  them.  This 
being  an  age  far  removed  from  heavenly  won- 
ders, the  unkind  error  must  continue  to  live  its 
own  evil  life  to  the  end,  and  the  wrong  must  go 
unrighted.  I  cannot  believe  Mr.  Van  Buren  a 
miscreant,  nor  do  I  think  the  sculptor  dishonest. 
I  count  the  case  to  be  one  of  misunderstanding,  in 
which  all  the  persons  concerned  were  both  honest 
and  wrong. 

Here  is  a  letter  from  one  of  the  witnesses  ap- 


HOLOGRAPHS  269 

pointed  to  view  the  remains  of  Abraham  Lincoln 
when  they  were  entombed  for  the  last  time,  and 
whose  duty  it  was  to  identify  those  remains  from 
a  personal  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Lincoln  during 
his  life.  The  interest  that  attaches  to  this  letter 
for  us  and  others  grows  out  of  associations  con- 
nected with  its  contents,  and  not  out  of  any  pe- 
culiar value  that  belongs  to  the  manuscript  itself. 
In  fact,  the  letter  is  type-written,  the  signature 
only  being  the  direct  work  of  the  writer's  pen,  so 
that  strictly  speaking  it  is  not  a  manuscript.  The 
letter  is  addressed  to  me,  and  is  in  response  to 
an  inquiry  concerning  the  condition  of  Mr.  Lin- 
coln's body  when  exhumed  for  reinterment. 

Alton,  111.,  Dec.  12th,  1901. 
My  dear  Sir: 

I  received  a  letter  from  you  some  time  ago  re- 
garding the  condition  of  the  body  of  Abraham  Lin- 
coln which  was  lately  reinterred  at  Springfield, 
while  I  was  acting  Governor  of  this  State.  Your 
letter  was  addressed  to  me  at  Springfield,  and  was 
forwarded  to  me  here,  and  mislaid  until  to-day, 
when  the  same  was  found  by  me.  In  answer  to 
your  inquiry  I  will  say  that  the  body  was  in  an  ex- 
cellent state  of  preservation,  and  the  features  were 
recognizable  by  any  one  who  had  ever  seen  Mr. 
Lincoln.  Even  his  clothing  seemed  to  have  been 
little  affected  by  the  length  of  time  since  his  first 
burial.  The  splendid  condition  of  the  remains  was 
a  very  agreeable  surprise  to  all  who  saw  them.  I 
have  not  received  your  book.  I  am  sorry  that  I  did 
not  reply  sooner,  and  beg  your  pardon  for  so  care- 
lessly mislaying  your  letter. 

Yours  very  truly, 

John  J.  Brenholt. 


270       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

The  body  of  Lincoln  was  thoroughly  embalmed 
by  Dr.  Thomas  Holmes,  who  lived  at  the  time  in 
Brooklyn,  N.  Y.  The  process,  which  was  known 
to  Dr.  Holmes  only,  was  unlike  any  employed  be- 
fore his  time  and  was  a  secret  that  he  guarded 
with  great  care  until  at  last  it  was  interred  with 
him  in  his  grave. 

During  the  Civil  War  Dr.  Holmes  embalmed 
the  bodies  of  a  number  of  distinguished  soldiers, 
and  so  it  came  to  pass  that  President  Lincoln  be- 
came interested  in  the  process  and  expressed  a 
wish  that  after  his  death  his  own  body  might  be 
embalmed  by  Dr.  Holmes,  should  the  Doctor  be 
living  at  the  time. 

Dr.  Holmes  advertised  his  art,  and  invited  the 
representatives  of  the  press  and  a  number  of 
prominent  men  to  examine  his  claims.  He  ex- 
hibited specimens  of  his  work,  some  of  which  had 
been  embalmed  more  than  thirty  years.  Few  took 
any  interest  in  the  discovery,  and  in  disgust  and 
disappointment  Dr.  Holmes  resolved  to  take  the 
secret  with  him  to  his  grave.  His  last  request 
was  that  when  he  was  dead  his  own  remains  should 
not  be  embalmed,  and  his  wish  was  respected. 

When  first  entombed  the  remains  of  Lincoln 
were  deposited  in  a  red  cedar  coffin  which  was  en- 
closed by  a  leaden  coffin.  Both  coffins  were  placed 
in  a  sarcophagus.  An  attempt  was  made  to  steal 
the  body,  which  led  to  a  re-burial.  A  new  grave 
was  dug  in  the  crypt  of  the  magnificent  monu- 
ment in  Oak  Ridge  Cemetery  at  Springfield,  111., 


HOLOGRAPHS  271 

and  on  the  fourteenth  of  April,  1887,  the  leaden 
coffin  was  placed  in  this  grave,  which  was  then 
filled  in  with  six  feet  of  concrete  and  covered  with 
the  sarcophagus. 

On  the  26th  of  September,  1901,  the  last  en- 
tombment of  the  body  of  Abraham  Lincoln  took 
place,  and  it  is  thought  that  never  again  can  any 
occasion  arise  for  the  removal  of  the  remains,  as 
the  monument  beneath  which  it  reposes  is  in  every 
way  satisfactory  and  worthy  of  the  memory  of 
the  great  man  whose  sacred  dust  it  guards. 

At  a  conference  of  the  Monument  Commission- 
ers which  took  place  in  the  Memorial  Hall  con- 
nected with  the  Monument,  the  question  of  open- 
ing the  coffin  was  discussed.  It  was  necessary  to 
view  the  body  for  the  purpose  of  identification, 
so  that  there  might  be  for  all  time  a  certainty  in 
the  public  mind  that  the  sacred  dust  was  actually 
contained  in  the  tomb  beneath  the  INIonument  that 
a  grateful  people  had  reared  to  the  memory  of 
the  illustrious  dead.  Everyone  was  excluded  from 
the  room  except  members  of  the  Commission  and 
the  Lincoln  Guard  of  Honor  and  the  workmen 
who  were  to  break  open  the  metal  casing.  It  was 
the  first  time  since  May  13th,  1887,  that  the  re- 
mains were  exposed  to  view.  The  features  and 
hands  were  found,  as  Gov.  Brenholt  stated  in  the 
letter  quoted,  "in  an  excellent  state  of  preserva- 
tion." The  formality  of  identification  accom- 
plished, the  casket  was  resealed  and  the  workmen 
bore  it  on  their  shoulders  to  the  place  prepared 


272       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

for  It — a  bed  of  iron  and  masonry  fifteen  feet 
below  the  base  of  the  shaft  of  the  Monument. 

The  Lincoln  Monument  is  of  Quincy  granite 
upon  a  foundation  of  concrete.  The  main  plat- 
form is  fifteen  feet  and  ten  inches  from  the 
ground,  and  is  reached  by  four  staircases,  one  at 
each  corner  of  the  balustrades.  The  platform  is 
floored  with  Ilhnois  limestone,  and  forms  the 
foundation  for  the  statuary,  which  rests  upon 
shafts  eleven  feet  in  diameter.  From  the  center 
rises  the  shaft  twelve  feet  square  at  the  base  and 
eight  at  the  top,  ninety-eight  feet  and  four  inches 
from  the  ground.  A  winding  staircase  within 
conducts  to  the  top.  Just  below  the  upper  base 
of  this  shaft  are  shields  of  polished  granite  bear- 
ing the  names  of  the  States  and  joined  together 
by  bands  of  polished  stone.  Heroic  groups  in 
bronze  adorn  the  Monument,  and  above  them 
rises  a  bronze  statue  of  Lincoln  holding  in  his 
hands  the  Proclamation  of  Emancipation.  The 
statue  was  modeled  by  Larkin  G.  Mead,  and  is 
regarded  as  a  noble  production  of  the  best 
American  art.  At  the  base  of  the  Monument  are 
Memorial  Hall,  containing  various  relics  of  the 
President,  and  the  crypt  in  which  the  body  was 
at  first  placed  and  where  it  remained  for  some 
time. 

It  is  difficult  to  determine  wherein  lies  the  pe- 
culiar charm  of  autograph-collecting.  Perhaps 
the  sense  of  personal  contact  with  distinguished 


HOLOGRAPHS  273 

and  interesting  characters  and  close  association 
with  deeds  of  historical  importance  may  have 
much  to  do  with  the  dehght  which  attaches  to  the 
possession  of  rare  and  interesting  letters  and  doc- 
uments. To  hold  in  one's  own  hand  the  identical 
paper  that  once  a  great  poet  or  statesman  held, 
and  to  gaze  upon  lines  there  traced  by  one  who 
has,  in  his  literary  work,  placed  the  entire  civi- 
lized world  under  obligation  to  himself,  is  surely 
a  great  delight.  There  is  also  to  be  added,  in 
many  cases,  actual  information  of  importance  im- 
parted by  the  document,  or,  it  may  be,  a  confirma- 
tion of  information  already  possessed.  The  let- 
ters and  journals  of  men  who  have  filled  positions 
of  public  trust  are  often  of  the  utmost  value. 
Furthermore,  there  is  something  in  the  actual 
autograph  that  introduces  its  possessor  to  an 
inner  knowledge  of  the  writer.  The  kind  of  pen- 
manship, the  orthography  and  punctuation,  and 
the  grammatical  construction  all  have  much  to  do 
with  our  acquaintance  with  the  author. 

The  hour  is  late.  With  care  I  fold  these  let- 
ters, one  by  one,  and  lay  them  away  in  the  little 
drawer.  I  turn  the  key  and  leave  them  to  silence 
and  repose.  Thus  at  last  must  come  to  us,  human 
documents,  the  evening  hour  when  we,  creased  by 
time  and  somewhat  the  worse  for  much  handling, 
shall  be  consigned  to  darkness  and  oblivion.  Yet 
when  night  falls  upon  the  busy  world,  some- 
where the  sun  will  still  continue  to  shine.     Shall 


274       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

I  think  so  much  of  these  letters  that  I  guard  with 
lock  and  key,  and  shall  the  Author  of  these  "liv- 
ing epistles"  that  are  "known  and  read  of  all 
men"  care  nothing  for  His  hand-writing?  It 
cannot  be. 


XI 
AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY 


"Along  the  gentle  slope  of  life's  decline 
He  bent  his  gradual  way,  till  full  of  years 
He  dropt  like  mellow  fruit  into  the  grave." 

— Porteus. 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY 

I 

AT  Windsor,  in  the  merry  land  of  England, 
where  linger  still  those  simple  manners  that 
keep  us  young  long  after  the  years  have  silvered 
the  hair  and  furrowed  the  brow,  there  died  in  1832 
Thomas  Pope,  a  shepherd  who,  like  the  Good 
Shepherd  of  whom  we  read  in  the  Sacred  Book, 
"loved  the  sheep."  He  had  seen  the  flowers  of 
ninety-six  summers  bloom  and  fade  in  the  door- 
yard  that  had  been  the  delight  of  his  early  days, 
and  in  which  he  sat  through  many  a  twilight  hour 
of  the  long  evening  of  his  well-spent  life. 

He  commenced  tending  sheep  when  as  a  lad  he 
received  but  two  pence  per  day,  and  nothing  could 
induce  him  to  change  his  occupation.  His  humble 
station  in  life  was  lifted  above  the  rudeness  and 
vulgarity  that  so  easily  attach  themselves  to  its 
seemingly  trivial  duties  by  the  artless  sincerity 
and  sweet  purity  of  the  man.  He  was  every  day 
alone  with  the  sheep  many  hours,  and,  wanting 
human  companionship,  he  would  seat  himself 
upon  a  moss-grown  boulder  under  a  spreading  elm 
where  he  could  see  the  creatures  of  his  charge  and 
watch  with  curious  attention  their  way  of  living. 
He  came  after  a  time  to  love  the  sheep,  and  he 
thought  them  better  company  than  the  men  and 
women  with  whom  he  conversed  at  the  village  inn 
and  with  whom  he  worshipped  in  the  old  stone 
277 


S78       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

church,  where  for  many  generations  his  lowly 
ancestors  had  lifted  their  untutored  hearts  to 
Heaven. 

At  last  the  old  man  came  to  die,  and  when  the 
doctor  could  do  no  more  they  sent  for  the 
preacher.  "Old  Thomas,  the  Shepherd,"  for  so 
they  called  him  for  miles  and  miles  around,  lis- 
tened to  the  reading  of  the  prayers  for  the  sick, 
and  added  his  own  quiet  and  reverent  Amen.  Then 
he  said  it  was  his  particular  wish  that  his  crook 
and  bell  might  be  buried  with  him — the  crook  in 
one  hand  and  the  bell  in  the  other. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  sun  looked  in  at  the 
window  of  the  low-thatched  cottage,  but  the 
shepherd  saw  it  not,  for  he  had  gone  far  away  to 
abide  with  the  countless  dead  that,  if  they  be  not 
great  or  wise,  we  soon  forget.  A  crowd  of  rustic 
folk  from  far  and  near,  and  with  them  the  lord 
of  the  Manor,  followed  the  shepherd  to  his  lowly 
grave.  In  the  deal  coffin  that  the  village  carpen- 
ter made  were  the  crook  and  bell  from  which  old 
Thomas  would  not  be  parted.  With  the  funeral 
procession  came  also  the  meek-eyed  sheep  that  had 
for  so  long  a  time  followed  their  kindly  care- 
taker ;  and  their  bleating  mingled  not  irreverently 
with  the  solemn  words  of  prayer. 

The  minister  read  the  Twenty-third  Psalm,  in 
which  the  Lord  is  represented  as  the  Shepherd  of 
his  people ;  and  then  they  covered  the  old  man 
with  turf,  and  left  him  under  the  flowers  and  the 
trees  that  were  so  soon  to  drink  up  the  juices  of 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     279 

his  body,  changing  them  into  the  beauty  of  the 
rose  and  the  grateful  refreshment  of  shade  under 
boughs  of  oak  and  elm.  More  than  seventy  years 
the  old  man  has  rested  in  the  grave  they  gave  him 
that  Autumn  day,  and  now,  after  so  long  a  time, 
by  mere  chance,  I  have  come  upon  the  story  of  his 
obscure  life  and  well-rendered  service.  There  is 
to  me  something  very  pleasant  in  the  thought  that 
after  this  life  is  over,  another  life  in  shrub,  and 
bush,  and  tree  awaits  us.  When  the  body  is  no 
longer  able  to  entangle  the  forces  of  the  universe 
in  its  wonderful  web  of  nerves,  arteries,  and  veins, 
and  cannot  use  them  to  further  its  own  ends,  it  is 
handed  over  to  those  forces  to  be  by  them  re- 
solved into  its  original  elements.  Two  groups  of 
natural  substances  await  our  coming.  The  first 
is  carbonic  acid,  water,  and  ammonia;  the  second 
is  mineral  constituents  more  or  less  oxidized,  ele- 
ments of  the  earth's  structure,  lime,  phosphorus, 
iron,  sulphur,  and  magnesia.  The  first  group 
passes  into  the  air  and  becomes  food  for  plants, 
while  the  second  enters  the  earth  and  enriches  it. 
We  do  not  know  precisely  what  death  is,  but  that 
supreme  experience,  however  we  may  view  it,  does 
not  separate  us  from  the  visible  universe.  On  the 
contrary,  it  gives  us  back  to  the  earth  so  far  as 
our  material  substance  is  concerned.  Uncon- 
sciously we  recognize  our  oneness  with  the  physi- 
cal universe  in  the  emblems  and  designs  with 
which  we  surround  death.  In  all  ages  men  have 
covered  the  lifeless  forms  of  their  dear  ones  with 


280       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

the  choicest  flowers  of  field  and  garden.  Memorial 
Day  in  our  Southern  States  and  Decoration  Day 
at  the  North  breathe  the  same  spirit.  By  some 
curious  association  flowers  soften  the  thought  of 
death,  and  take  from  the  grave  something  of  its 
desolation.  Our  fathers  carved  upon  the  grave- 
stone a  grewsome  skull  or  an  unsightly  skeleton, 
but  we  chisel  upon  the  monuments  that  mark  the 
graves  of  our  loved  ones,  if  not  the  sacred  emblem 
of  our  faith  or  some  blessed  angel  winging  its 
way  heavenward,  then  a  rose  to  remind  us  of 
Heaven,  or  a  lily,  or  it  may  be  some  wild  flower 
that  one  sees  growing  by  the  brook  or  in  the  sun- 
lighted  meadow — clover,  daisy,  or  spurge.  And 
thus  it  comes  to  pass  that  Nature  in  no  small  de- 
gree reconciles  our  love  of  life  with  our  certainty 
of  death.  When  we  picture  in  our  minds  the  end 
of  earthly  existence  we  frame  that  picture  in  all 
the  rural  beauty  and  attractiveness  of  our  modern 
garden  cemetery.  A  poet  has  put  something  of 
this  thought  and  feeling  into  graceful  lines: 

"Though  life  speeds  on  to  its  ending, 
I  am  not  afraid ; 
To  protean  earth  descending, 

I  shall  pass  undismayed, 
Who  count  the  long  learning  and  spending 
By  the  dream  outweighed. 

Bleak  winds  from  eternity  blowing 

Pass,  leaving  no  trace ; 
The  seed  of  an  unfathomed  sowing, 

I  must  sink  to  my  place. 
May  it  be  near  a  calm  river's  flowing. 

Where  grow  green  things  apace, 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     281 

Where  happy  lovers  thereafter 

Will  pause  as  they  roam. 
And  house  room  and  sill  and  rafter 
Will  build  them  a  home, 

And  there  will  be  children's  laughter 
In  the  garden  abloom." 

II 

We  like  to  think  that  the  things  most  precious 
to  us  in  this  life  will  be  in  some  way  associated 
with  our  death  and  burial.  We  desire  to  rest 
with  our  kindred,  surrounded  by  the  associations 
and  natural  scenery  of  earlier  days.  Napoleon, 
in  his  will,  expresses  a  wish  that  gives  voice  to  the 
desire  of  the  human  heart  in  every  age  and  clime. 
The  pilgrim  to  sacred  shrines  of  genius  and  de- 
votion may  read  that  wish  carved  upon  the  mag- 
nificent tomb  of  the  Emperor,  high  above  the  door 
leading  to  the  enclosure  where  rests  the  sarcopha- 
gus: 

JE  DESIRE  QUE  MES  CENDRES 

REPOSENT 

SUR  LES  BORDS  DE  LA  SEINE 

AU  MILIEU  DE  CE  PEUPLE  FRANQAIS 

QUE  J'AI  TANT  AIM^ 

The  lovely  poem  of  Ruth,  written  in  the  very 
dawn  of  history,  discloses  to  us  the  deep  and 
abiding  secret  of  human  affection  in  the  never- 
to-be-forgotten  words  of  the  gentle  Moabitish 
woman :  "Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee,  nor  to  re- 
turn from  following  after  thee :  for  whither  thou 


282       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

goest  I  will  go;  and  where  thou  lodgest,  I  will 
lodge:  thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy 
God  my  God:  where  thou  diest  will  I  die,  and 
there  will  I  be  buried."  When  we  would  express 
our  most  ardent  love  for  the  land  we  call  our  own, 
we  describe  that  land  as  the  "burial-place  of  our 
fathers."  Sir  Walter  Scott  hastened  home  with 
anxious  heart,  for  he  would  not  die  in  a  strange 
land  and  leave  his  bones  to  crumble  in  foreign 
earth.  Washington  Irving  took  great  pleasure  in 
his  quiet  and  retired  life  on  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson,  and  he  desired  above  all  things  that 
when  death  should  have  robbed  him  of  his  queer 
old  seventeenth  century  mansion  and  of  the 
beauty  of  river  and  landscape,  his  dust  might 
mingle  with  that  of  his  kindred  in  Sleepy  Hollow, 
near  the  little  church  in  which  the  credulous 
schoolmaster,  Ichabod  Crane,  led  the  choir. 

And  as  of  places,  so  of  things.  The  shepherd 
of  Windsor  was  not  unlike  wiser  and  greater  men 
in  his  wish  to  mingle  with  death  the  sweeter  asso- 
ciations of  life.  Over  the  dead  Raphael  floated 
the  Transfiguration  which  the  illustrious  artist 
painted  for  the  cathedral  of  Norbonne  in  France, 
and  which  is  now  preserved  among  the  most  sa- 
cred treasures  of  the  Vatican.  On  Richter's  coffin 
they  placed  a  copy  of  one  of  his  books.  The 
great  soldier  must  have  his  sword  accompany  liira 
to  the  grave.  A  western  vine-grower  whose  vine- 
yards made  purple  all  the  hill-side  had  buried 
with  him  a  bottle  of  his  choicest  wine.     An  aged 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     283 

violinist  held  in  his  unconscious  grasp  the  musi- 
cal instrument  he  loved  so  well.  A  clergyman  had 
placed  in  his  coffin  a  copy  of  the  New  Testament 
in  which  his  mother  had  written  her  name  when  he 
was  a  child.  In  a  grave  near  the  city  of  Rich- 
mond there  is  deposited  a  little  tin  bank  filled  with 
coins  of  small  value  that  were  collected  and  prized 
by  a  child.  The  mother  placed  the  treasure  there 
because  in  that  grave  she  had  herself  deposited  a 
much  greater  treasure.  All  the  world  knows  how 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  buried  in  his  wife's  grave 
the  manuscript  of  a  volume  of  his  unpublished 
poems.  In  that  volume  were  some  of  the  poet's 
best  verses.  The  treasure  was  recovered  only 
after  the  pleading  of  some  of  his  warmest  friends. 
It  has  always  seemed  strange  to  me  that  so  mo- 
mentous and  certain  an  experience  as  death,  an 
experience  that  so  deeply  concerns  every  human 
being,  and  that  of  necessity  obtrudes  itself  so 
often  upon  the  mind  of  man,  should  be,  by  almost 
universal  consent,  excluded  from  the  subject- 
matter  of  ordinary  conversation.  An  English  sov- 
ereign threatened  with  relentless  and  severe  pun- 
ishment all  who  should  in  any  way,  in  his  pres- 
ence, hint  at  the  fact  of  mortality.  By  tacit 
agreement  the  very  word  death  is  avoided  in 
what  we  call  "good  society,"  and  for  it  are  sub- 
stituted sucli  weak  and  poor  expressions  as  "pass- 
ing away,"  "going  to  rest,"  and  "falling  asleep." 
The  old  Romans  used  to  say,  "He  has  ceased  to 
live."    Why  should  we  go  all  our  days  in  fear  of 


284i       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

dissolution?  I  knew  of  a  man  who  was  in  great 
distress  day  and  night  because  he  could  not  re^ 
main  on  earth  forever.  Much  wiser  was  Walt 
Whitman,  whose  comforting  and  reassuring 
poem,  "When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door- Yard 
Bloom'd,"  will  live  in  our  literature.  One  drinks 
in  peace  with  every  word  of  lines  like  these : 

"Come,  lovely  and  soothing  Death, 
Undulate  round   the  world,  serenely  arriving,  ar- 
riving, 
In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each. 
Sooner  or  later,  delicate  Death. 


Dark  Mother,  always  gliding  near,  with  soft  feet, 

Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  wel- 
come? 

Then  I  chant  it  for  thee — I  glorify  thee  above  all; 

I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed 
come,  come  unfalteringly. 

Approach,  strong  DeUveress ! 

When  it  is  so — when  thou  hast  taken  them,  I  joy- 
ously sing  the  dead. 
Lost  in  the  loving,  floating  ocean  of  thee. 
Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss,  O  Death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades. 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose,  saluting  thee — adorn- 
ments and  feastings  for  thee ; 

And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape,  and  the 
high-spread   sky,   are   fitting. 

And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thought- 
ful night. 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY    285 

The  night,  in  silence,  under  many  a  star; 

The  ocean-shore,  and  the  husky  whispering  wave, 

whose  voice  I  know; 
And  the  soul  turning  to    thee,    O    vast    and    well- 

veil'd  Death, 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song! 
Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves — over  the  myr- 
iad fields,  and  the  prairies  wide; 
Over  the  dense-pack'd  cities  all,  and  the  teeming 

wharves  and  ways, 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,    with    joy    to    thee,    O 

Death !" 

Is  death  painful?  No,  not  in  itself.  The  mere 
act  of  dissolution  is  in  the  very  nature  of  the  case 
entirely  free  from  all  distress.  It  must  be  so,  for 
otherwise  we  should  be  always  in  pain,  since  we 
are  always  dying.  The  death  of  which  we  speak 
is  molecular,  but  in  the  final  analysis  all  death  of 
which  we  have  knowledge  is  molecular.  We  usu- 
ally divide  death  into  Somatic  and  Molecular. 
Somatic  death  effects  the  entire  organism,  while 
molecular  effects  only  a  limited  and  definite  num- 
ber of  molecules.  "The  spherule  of  force  which 
is  the  primitive  basis  of  a  cell,"  writes  Mr.  Alger 
in  his  valuable  work,  "A  Critical  History  of  the 
Doctrine  of  a  Future  Life,"  "spends  itself  in  the 
discharge  of  its  work.  The  amount  of  vital  ac- 
tion which  can  be  performed  by  such  living  cells 
has  a  definite  limit.  When  that  limit  is  reached, 
the  exhausted  cell  is  dead.  No  function  can  be 
performed  without  the  disintegration  of  a  certain 


286       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

amount  of  tissue.  This  final  expenditure  on  the 
part  of  a  cell  of  its  force  is  the  act  of  molecular 
death  and  the  germinal  essence  of  all  decay.  This 
organic  law  rules  in  every  living  structure,  and  is 
a  necessity  inherent  in  creation.  .  .  Wherever  we 
look  in  the  realm  of  physical  man,  from  the  red 
outline  of  the  first  Adam  to  the  shapeless  adipose 
of  the  last  corpse  when  fate's  black  curtain  falls 
on  our  race,  we  shall  discern  death,  for  death  is 
the  other  side  of  life," 

Plants  and  animals  depend  for  their  growth 
upon  the  subordination  of  their  cells — these  yield 
their  little  lives  for  the  larger  life  of  the  whole. 
"The  formation  of  a  perfectly  organized  plant," 
says  Leibnitz,  "is  made  possible  only  through  the 
continuous  dying  and  replacement  of  its  cells." 
Even  so  the  cells  which  compose  our  structures  die 
that  we  may  live,  and  in  like  manner  our  death 
is  necessary  to  the  growth  and  development  of  the 
race.  We  are  the  separate  cells  that  constitute 
the  one  man,  Humanity.  His  integrity  depends 
on  our  subordination.  The  greater  that  subordi- 
nation, the  more  perfect  his  structure. 

IMolecular  death,  as  has  been  said,  is  painless, 
and  so  it  comes  to  pass  that  somatic  death  which 
is  still  molecular  must  also  be  without  pain.  It 
is  true  that  persons  sometimes  die  in  a  state  of 
torture,  but  that  torture  is  a  phenomenon  of  dis- 
ease or  of  some  accident,  and  not  of  death — the 
distress  might  befall  the  man  without  death.  It 
is  a  fact  that  death  is  in  most  cases  free  from  all 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     287 

association  with  both  physical  pain  and  mental 
distress.  Sir  Charles  Blagden  died  in  his  chair 
while  drinking  coffee,  and  his  departure  was  so 
calm  that  not  a  drop  was  spilled  from  the  cup  in 
his  hand.  Dr.  Black,  also,  died  so  composedly 
that  the  milk  in  the  spoon  which  he  held  to  his 
lips  was  all  preserved.  Dr.  Walloston  watched 
with  scientific  interest  the  gradual  failure  of  his 
own  vital  power.  Dr.  Cullen  whispered  in  his  last 
moments,  "I  wish  I  had  the  power  of  writing,  for 
then  I  would  describe  to  you  how  pleasant  a  thing 
it  is  to  die."  In  my  book  on  "The  Last  Words 
of  Distinguished  Men  and  Women"  which  was 
published  a  few  years  ago,  I  collected  the  dying 
words  of  many  prominent  persons.  Very  few  of 
the  persons  whose  last  words  are  recorded  in  that 
book  faced  death  with  serious  apprehension  or  ex- 
perienced great  pain.  Dr.  Adam  of  Edinburgh, 
the  high-school  headmaster,  murmured  in  his  de- 
lirium, "It  grows  dark,  boys,  you  may  go."  The 
last  words  of  Goethe  were,  "Draw  back  the  cur- 
tains, and  let  in  more  light."  The  last  words  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  addressed  to  Lockhart,  were, 
**Be  a  good  man,  my  dear." 

The  phrase  "last  agony"  has  helped  to  fasten 
upon  the  popular  mind  the  belief  that  death  is 
painful.  But  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  "last 
agony."  Death  is  a  normal  event,  and  medical 
science  has  made  it  clear  that  the  dying,  as  a  rule, 
pass  away  in  unconscious  slumber.  Dr.  Osier,  in 
his  Ingersoll  lecture  on  "Immortality,"  says:  "I 


288       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

have  careful  records  of  about  five  hundred  death- 
beds, studied  particularly  with  reference  to  the 
modes  of  death  and  the  sensations  of  dying.  The 
latter  alone  concern  us  here.  Ninety  suffered 
bodily  pain  or  distress  of  one  sort  or  another." 
That  would  make  not  far  from  one-sixth  of  the 
cases  observed  attended  with  pain,  but  this  physi- 
cal distress,  as  Dr.  Osier  points  out,  was  in  no 
instance  connected  with  the  act  of  mortality.  It 
was  a  concomitant  of  disease  and  would  have  been 
precisely  the  same  had  the  disease  ended  in  re- 
covery. In  most  cases  the  immediate  cause  of 
death  is  the  poisoning  of  the  nerve-centres  by  car- 
bonic acid.  It  must  be  remembered  that  carbonic 
acid  accumulating  in  the  blood  is  as  truly  anaes- 
thetic in  its  action  as  are  chloroform  and  sulphuric 
ether.  It  puts  the  man  to  sleep,  but  the  sleep  is 
one  that  knows  no  awakening  in  this  life.  The 
poets  did  not  stray  far  from  the  truth  when  they 
described  death  as  a  sleep.  Thus  also  our  Saviour 
represented  death.  And  thus  as  well  do  we,  con- 
templating its  calmness  and  repose,  view  the  close 
of  our  mortal  existence  as  a  deep  and  dreamless 
slumber.  Continuing  his  statement  with  regard 
to  the  five  hundred  death-beds  that  he  had  studied. 
Dr.  Osier  writes:  "Eleven  showed  mental  appre- 
hension" (that  was  before  the  carbonic  acid  had 
taken  effect),  "two  positive  terror,  one  expressed 
spiritual  exultation,  one  bitter  remorse.  The 
great  majority  gave  no  sign  one  way  or  the 
other;  like  their  birth,  their  death  was  'a  sleep 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     289 

and  a  forgetting.'  The  Preacher  was  right  in 
this  matter,  for  man  'hath  no  pre-eminence  above 
the  beast — as  the  one  dieth,  so  dieth  the  other.'  " 
Nature  sustains  a  balance  between  animal  and 
vegetable  life.  There  was  a  time,  countless  cen- 
turies ago,  when  that  balance  did  not  exist.  In 
the  Carboniferous  Age  plant-life  reached  a  luxu- 
riance of  which  we  can  now  form  but  a  faint  idea. 
The  air  had  to  become  respirable  for  man,  and 
then  the  human  race  made  its  appearance.  Ani- 
mals inhale  oxygen  and  nitrogen,  and  exhale  car- 
bonic acid,  watery  vapor,  and  a  trace  of  animal 
matter  in  a  gaseous  form.  Plants  reverse  the 
process,  and  consume  carbonic  acid  while  they 
yield  oxygen.  The  growth  of  the  flora  of  the 
Carboniferous  Age  was  a  means  of  purifying  the 
atmosphere  so  as  to  fit  it  for  the  higher  terrestrial 
life  that  was  afterwards  to  possess  the  earth.  It  is 
by  constantly  breathing  each  other's  breath  that 
man  and  his  neighbor,  the  tree,  live.  What,  then, 
becomes  of  the  first  group  into  which  we  are  con- 
verted by  the  beautiful  chemistry  of  death.''  It 
goes  into  the  air  and  fills  the  millions  of  open 
mouths  of  vegetables.  The  hungry  plants  con- 
sume the  carbonic  acid  which  would  otherwise 
render  the  air  irrespirable  for  man.  The  car- 
bon, separated  and  assimilated,  comes  to  form 
vegetable  fibre.  The  wood  that  burns  merrily  in 
the  fire-place,  the  food  and  wine  that  make  man 
strong  and  healthy,  the  crimson  foliage  of  Aut- 
umn, and  the  golden  grain  of  harvest-time  have 


290       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

passed  thousands  of  times  to  and  from  both  ani- 
mal and  vegetable  states  of  existence  Tree  and 
man  are  closely  related  in  the  economy  of  nature. 
Life  and  death  are  never  far  apart. 

Life  evermore  is  fed  by  death, 

In  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky; 
And  that  a  rose  may  breathe  its  breath, 

Some  living  thing  must  die. 

We  gaze  upon  the  statue  with  different  emo- 
tions from  those  with  which  we  look  upon  a  corpse. 
One  we  recognize  as  a  work  of  art  and  the  other 
we  view  as  a  work  of  impassive  death.  The  fin- 
gers that  lightly  glide  over  the  smoothness  of  one 
are  drawn  with  horror  from  the  coldness  of  the 
other.  Men  who  faint  in  the  dissecting  room 
stand  or  sit  at  ease  in  the  sculptor's  studio.  A 
wide  difference  is  supposed  to  exist  between  the 
scalpel  and  the  chisel,  but  no  such  difference  ex- 
ists. Every  atom  of  marble  in  the  statue  once, 
long  before  man  trod  the  planet,  lived  and  suf- 
fered, and  was  glad  and  died.  Those  little  shin- 
ing atoms  of  marble  are  the  skeletons  of  animal- 
cules— millions  of  minute  animalculae  that  were 
fused  in  the  heat  of  central  fires  beneath  great 
oceans  many  thousands  of  years  ago.  The  statue 
is  a  corpse — more,  a  congeries  of  corpses.  The 
microscope  reveals  their  disk-like  structures ;  and 
by  careful  study  of  what  they  have  left  us  we 
may  come  to  some  knowledge  of  what  the  life  they 
once  lived  must  have  been  like.     The  marbles  of 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     291 

Phidias  and  Pol^^cletus  once  throbbed  with  life, 
and  the  old  gods  of  Greece  and  Rome  were  not 
always  deaf  and  blind. 

The  earth  we  tread  is  a  vast  cemetery.  The 
stones  under  our  feet  are  all  written  over  with  his- 
tories and  marvelous  tales  of  the  dead — histories 
and  tales  no  eye  will  ever  read,  and  to  which  no 
ear  will  listen.  It  has  been  estimated  by  scientists 
that  on  each  square  rod  of  our  earth  something 
like  1280  human  beings  lie  buried,  each  rod  being 
scarcely  sufficient  for  ten  graves,  with  each  grave 
containing  128  persons.  The  entire  surface  of 
our  globe,  then,  has  been  dug  up  128  times  to 
bury  its  dead.  The  dead  are  everything,  they  are 
everywhere, — under  our  feet,  over  our  heads,  and 
on  every  side.  They  are  in  the  solid  earth  on 
which  we  stand,  the  unfathomed  oceans  that  sur- 
round our  continents,  and  through  the  spaces  of 
the  air  they  ride  on  every  wind.  Not  formless 
phantoms  wrought  from  the  texture  of  a  dream 
are  the  unnumbered  hosts  that  come  and  go 
through  all  the  crowded  thoroughfares  of  life, 
but  real  and  tangible  in  the  perfume  of  the  rose 
and  the  whiteness  of  the  untrodden  snow,  the  mo- 
tion of  the  wave  and  the  hardness  of  the  rock,  the 
richness  of  the  harvest  and  the  primeval  grandeur 
of  the  forest.  In  the  familiar  lines  of  an  Ameri- 
can poet: 

"Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground 


292       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many  tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again; 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements — 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock. 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 

Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 

Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings. 

The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good — 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past. 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre." 

It  is  a  popular  belief  that  sensibility  remains 
for  a  time  after  decapitation.  It  is  said  that 
Charlotte  Corday's  cheeks  blushed  at  the  exposure 
of  her  person ;  that  the  eyes  of  Madame  Roland 
opened  as  if  in  surprise;  that  the  lips  of  Phillip 
Egaliti  curled  in  scorn  when  his  head  was  held  up 
to  the  multitude ;  and  that  the  lips  of  Mary  Stuart 
under  similar  circumstances  prayed  visibly.  There 
may  be  some  truth  in  the  belief  that  sensibility 
remains  for  a  time.  There  are  certain  results  of 
scientific  observation  that  look  in  that  direction. 
Brouardel  records  a  case  witnessed  by  competent 
observers  in  which  the  heart  continued  to  beat  for 
one  hour  in  a  decapitated  murderer,  and  he  states 
it  as  a  fact  that  he  himself  saw  the  heart  beat  for 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     293 

more  than  twenty  minutes  in  a  decapitated  dog. 
Since  life  continues  in  one  part  of  the  body,  it 
may  be  it  continues  as  well  in  other  parts.  Cell- 
life,  it  would  seem,  remains  for  a  time,  and  that 
life  is  identical  with  the  larger  or  somatic  life. 
There  are  dead  cells  in  the  living  body ;  and  in 
the  dead  body,  it  is  more  than  likely,  there  are 
living  ones.  These  cells  have  different  periods  of 
birth  and  death.  Every  moment  they  are  being 
formed  and  destroyed.  The  man  is,  physically 
considered,  the  aggregate  of  all  the  various  cells 
that  make  up  his  body.  There  are  no  particles 
in  the  body  that  were  there  when  the  man  was  a 
child,  and  in  a  few  years  there  will  be  no  particles 
in  the  organism  that  are  there  now.  No  man's 
body  is  identically  the  same  two  days  in  succession. 
Concerning  the  celebrated  historic  premoni- 
tions of  death,  it  is  well  to  play  the  skeptic. 
The  disease  of  Fletcher,  which  caused  him  to 
send  for  a  sculptor  and  order  his  tomb ;  the 
salutation  of  Wolsey,  so  eloquently  dramatized; 
the  whining  cant  of  Foote,  when  Weston 
died,  "Soon  shall  others  say  'Poor  Foote !'  '* 
and  the  last  picture  of  Hogarth,  which  he 
entitled  "The  End  of  All  Things,"  adding, 
"This  is  the  end," — all  these  and  many  other 
so-called  premonitions  are  open  to  uncertainty. 
They  are  unsustained  by  scientific  observation, 
and  though  they  are  interesting  and  in  some 
measure  astonishing,  still  they  are  far  from  com- 
pelling the  mind's  assent.     Hayden,  the  unfor- 


294       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

tunate  painter  who,  in  a  fit  of  despondency,  took 
his  own  Hfe,  has  this  entry  in  his  Journal  under 
the  date  of  February  15th,  1815: 

"About  this  time,  I  had  a  most  singular  dream. 
I  dreamed  Wilkie  and  I  were  both  climbing  up  an 
immensely  high  wall,  at  the  top  of  which  were 
sweet  creatures  smiling  and  welcoming  us.  He 
could  scarcely  keep  hold,  it  was  so  steep  and  slip- 
pery; when  all  of  a  sudden  he  let  go,  and  I  saw 
him  wind  and  curve  in  the  air,  and  I  felt  the  hor- 
rible conviction  that  his  body  would  be  dashed  to 
pieces.  After  a  moment's  grief,  I  persevered  and 
reached  the  top,  and  there  found  Mrs.  Wilkie  and 
his  sister,  lamenting  his  death." 

Later,  Ha^'den  added,  "This  is  like  a  presenti- 
ment of  his  (Wilkie's)  dying  first."  There  are 
countless  stories  of  apparitions,  spectres,  and 
ghosts  appearing  to  men  and  foretelling  the  ap- 
proach of  death.  Perhaps  it  will  never  be  possi- 
ble to  fully  explain  these  premonitions — that  is 
to  say,  to  explain  them  to  the  reasoning  and  sci- 
entific mind.  Madden,  in  his  "Shrines  and  Sep- 
ulchres,' says:  "A  great  light  of  intelligence  is 
going  out;  it  flares  up  occasionally,  fitfully  per- 
haps, but  never  fails  to  make  the  darkness  visible 
that  is  around  it,  till  every  sense  has  ceased  to  be 
perceptive  and  every  vital  organ  has  given  over 
the  performance  of  its  functions."  One  who  has 
been  often  with  the  dying  has  witnessed  time  and 
time  again  what  Madden  describes.  As  the  smould- 
ering embers,  fanned  by  a  sudden  breeze,  start 
into  a  bright  flame,  so  sometimes  the  mind  glows 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     295 

with  unexpected  and  peculiar  brilliancy  just  be- 
fore it  darkens  forever.  No  doubt  expectation  is 
often  responsible  for  premonitions,  and  yet  there 
is  something  more  in  these  experiences  than  mere 
expectation.  Ozanam,  the  distinguished  mathema- 
tician, had  no  thought  or  anticipation  of  death, 
and  yet  so  strong  was  the  presentiment  when  it 
came,  and  so  persistent  was  it,  that  he  refused  to 
take  pupils  who  wished  to  study  under  his  direc- 
tion. Mozart  wrote  his  Requiem  under  the  con- 
viction that  death  was  at  hand.  He  had  not  been 
thinking  of  death,  and  yet  the  premonition  came 
suddenly  and  without  any  expectation  on  his  part. 
In  many  cases  some  degree  of  anticipation  is  pres- 
ent. A  number  of  stories,  some  of  them  well 
authenticated,  illustrate  the  marvellous  power  of 
imagination  and  expectation.  In  Welby's  "Mys- 
teries of  Life,  Death,  and  Futurity"  is  this  ac- 
count of  the  use  made  of  suggestion  by  the 
profligate  abbess  of  a  convent,  the  Princess  Gon- 
zaga  of  Cleves  and  Guise,  and  the  equally  profli- 
gate Archbishop  of  Rheims.  "They  took  it  into 
their  heads,  for  a  jest,  to  visit  one  of  the  nuns 
by  night  and  exhort  her  as  a  person  who  was 
visibly  dying.  While  in  the  performance  of  their 
heartless  scheme  they  whispered  to  each  other, 
*She  is  just  departing,'  and  behold  she  did  depart 
in  earnest."  Suggestion  is  the  very  life-blood  of 
the  psychological  side  of  human  existence.  We 
are  confirmed  in  what  we  are  or  changed  for  good 
or  ill  by  whatever  touches  us.     The  sounds  of 


296       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

nature  no  less  than  the  voice  of  man  influence  our 
thought,  feehng,  and  conduct.  There  is  "a 
tongue  in  the  trees"  for  all  who  have  ears  with 
which  to  catch  the  marvellous  harmony  of  the 
great  world  of  natural  objects  that  surrounds  us. 
There  are  "books  in  running  brooks"  for  those 
who  can  feel  the  subtile  charm  of  such  literature. 
We  are  moved  by  unseen,  undreamed  of  influences, 
and  even  the  hardest  heart  is  as  clay  in  the  hand 
of  the  potter.  Countless  suggestions  at  every  turn 
impress  themselves  upon  our  imagination,  and 
later  years,  with  riper  knowledge  and  changed 
opinions,  are  powerless  to  remove  them.  Dr. 
Saleeby  does  not  overestimate  the  force  of  sugges- 
tion in  this  striking  paragraph  which  is  taken 
from  his  interesting  and  profitable  book  on 
"Worry": 

"It  (suggestion)  can  kill  outright,  as  in  well  at- 
tested cases,  where  ,  for  instance,  the  joke  has  been 
played  of  bhndfolding  a  school-boy,  telling  him 
that  he  is  to  be  beheaded,  and  then  striking  his 
neck  at  word  of  command  with  a  wet  towel.  In 
such  circumstances  a  boy  has  been  known  to  die  in- 
stantly. It  can  cause  imconsciousness,  as  when  the 
nurse  injects  ten  drops  of  a  solution  of  common 
salt  under  the  soporific  name  of  morphia — in  a  few 
moments  the  patient  is  asleep.  It  can  determine 
immunity  or  susceptibility  to  infectious  disease,  as 
when  the  person  who  fears  infection  is  struck  down, 
while  he  or  she  who  does  not  fear  or  does  not  care 
escapes.  That  these  things  happen  there  is  no  pos- 
sible doubt.  That  suggestion  can  produce  or  reheve 
pain  every  one  knows.     That  it  can  produce  sub- 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     297 

cutaneous  hemorrhages  and  severe  ulcerations  is 
proved  by  the  cases  of  the  'stigmata'  of  St.  Francis 
and  others." 

Professor  Pavlov,  of  the  Military  Academy  in 
St.  Petersburg,  has  shown  that  suggestion  has  a 
powerful  influence  over  the  secretions  of  the  lower 
animals.  He  demonstrated  that  the  expectation 
of  food  caused  an  increased  flow  of  both  saliva 
and  gastric  juice  in  a  dog  upon  which  he  oper- 
ated in  his  laboratory. 

Hypnotic  sleep  is  one  of  the  results  of  sugges- 
tion, and  this  sleep  is  in  some  cases  sufficiently 
profound  to  enable  the  patient  to  undergo  a  sur- 
gical operation  without  an  anaesthetic.  Dr.  Aid- 
rich,  a  distinguished  London  surgeon,  removed  a 
woman's  leg  without  resorting  to  an  anaesthetic. 
The  physicians  who  were  present  doubted  the  pos- 
sibilty  of  performing  the  operation  without  re- 
sorting to  chloroform,  but  the  emergency  they 
expected  did  not  arise.  While  the  surgeon  was  at 
his  work,  the  woman  chatted  with  the  nurse  and 
drank  wine.  To  an  ordinary  observer  she  would 
have  appeared  perfectly  conscious. 

Though  it  has  been  shown  that  death  is  in  itself 
never  painful,  still  multitudes  approach  it  with 
the  greatest  apprehension.  The  fear  of  death, 
which  is  for  the  most  part  a  fear  of  something 
beyond  the  grave  and  of  which  we  know  but  little, 
is  well-nigh  universal.  Man  naturally  dreads 
what  he  does  not  understand : 


298       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

"The  dread  of  something  after  death — 
The  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveler  returns — puzzles  the  will; 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have. 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of." 

To  this  vast  uncertainty  with  regard  to  the 
future  there  is  added  the  powerful  influence  of 
early  training.  Those  who  have  been  educated 
under  enlightened  views  of  God,  duty,  and  destiny 
can  never  know  how  dreadful  has  been  the  torture 
to  which  the  old  conceptions  of  life  and  death 
have  subjected  men.  The  fancied  risks  of  another 
world  have  plunged  this  world  into  abysses  of  in- 
expressible darkness  and  distress.  Imagination 
called  up  countless  spirits  of  shame  and  despair, 
and  over  all  the  world  inscribed  the  fearful  line 
that  Dante  saw  above  the  portal  of  Hell : 

"All  hope  abandon  ye  who  enter  here." 

Our  fathers,  who  were  well  acquainted  with  the 
Greek  and  Latin  classics,  should  have  profited  by 
the  wisdom  of  one  who  lived  in  a  darker  age  than 
that  in  which  they  lived  and  wrought  out  their 
problems  in  thought  and  morals.  Thus  the  old 
poet  and  philosopher  Lucretius  taught:  "That 
dreadful  fear  of  hell  is  to  be  driven  out,  which 
disturbs  the  life  of  man  and  renders  it  miserable, 
overcasting  all  things  with  the  blackness  of  dark- 
ness, and  leaving  no  pure,  unalloyed  pleasure." 

John  Calvin  was  not  only  one  of  the  greatest 
of  men,  but  he  was  a  man  loyal  to  the  light  that 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     299 

was  in  him.  Never  was  one  braver  or  more  stead- 
fast. He  counted  no  cost,  but  with  unshaken  pur- 
pose did  what  he  believed  to  be  the  will  of  God, 
and  to  him  the  entire  Protestant  church  and  aU 
who  enjoy  free  institutions  are  under  an  obliga- 
tion that  can  never  be  discharged.  And  yet  the 
lofty  and  lonely  form  of  Calvin  casts  over  all 
subsequent  history  a  long  dark  shadow  wherein 
the  souls  of  thousands  of  men  and  women,  and 
even  little  children,  have  experienced  the  bitter- 
ness of  a  despair  no  language  is  adequate  to 
describe.  Men  were  taught  that,  wicked  by  na- 
ture and  wicked  in  every  part  of  that  nature,  they 
were  unable  to  do  the  will  of  God,  and  that  still 
they  were  under  obligation  to  obey  God  and  to 
do  His  will.  Eternal  doom  could  be  averted  only 
by  special  grace.  The  very  disability  which  men 
did  not  occasion,  and  which  they  lamented,  was 
in  itself  sinful.  Religion,  especially  in  Scotland 
and  New  England,  was  an  indescribable  night- 
mare. How  different  was  the  teaching  of  Jesus ! 
He  casts  over  the  world  no  dark  shadow.  From 
Him,  as  from  the  sun  in  the  heavens,  falls  the 
gladness  and  glory  of  cloudless  light.  He  taught 
men  to  say,  "Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven."  He 
did  not  hide  from  men  the  just  judgments  of  God, 
but  He  opened  their  eyes,  and  lo !  they  discovered 
at  once  that  "God  is  love."  Men  of  feeble  faith 
were  welcomed ;  not  all  who  believe  have  clear  and 
unquestioning  faith.  Coleridge  wrote  what 
others    as    well    have    experienced:    "I    should, 


300       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

perHaps,  be  a  happier,  at  all  events  a  more 
useful  man,  if  my  mind  were  otherwise  con- 
stituted. But  so  it  is :  and  even  with  regard 
to  Christianity  itself,  like  certain  plants,  I 
creep  towards  the  light,  even  though  it  draw  me 
away  from  the  more  nourishing  warmth.  Yea,  I 
should  do  so,  even  if  the  light  made  its  way 
through  a  rent  in  the  wall  of  the  Temple.  My 
prayer  has  always  been  that  of  Ajax,  'Give  me 
light'  " 

The  animals  below  man,  though  they  fear  dan- 
ger, show  no  sign  of  anxiety  with  regard  to  the 
future.  They  do  not  fear  death.  So  far  as  we 
know,  they  neither  understand  nor  think  of  the 
end  of  their  individuality.  Dr.  Grenfell,  in  his 
little  book,  "Adrift  on  an  Ice-pan,"  tells  his 
readers  how  he  had  to  stab  several  of  his  dogs  in 
order  to  preserve  his  own  life,  and  he  remarks : 

"The  other  dogs  licked  their  coats  and  endeav- 
ored to  get  dry,  but  they  apparently  took  no  notice 
of  the  fate  of  their  comrades,  —  but  I  was  very  care- 
ful to  prevent  the  dying  dogs  from  crying  out,  as  the 
noise  of  fighting  would  probably  have  been  followed 
by  the  rest  attacking  the  down  dog,  and  that  was  too 

close  to  me  on  the  narrow  ice-pan  to  be  pleasant 

In  fact,  the  other  dogs  after  a  time  tried  to  satisfy 
their  hunger  by  gnawing  at  the  dead  bodies  of  their 
brothers." 

Man  in  a  savage  state  has  little  fear  of  death. 
He  fears  sorcery  and  diabolism  for  the  reason 
that  these  have  power,  in  his  opinion,  to  so  influ- 
ence his  life  on  earth  as  to  make  it  both  brief  and 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     301 

unfortunate.  Only  when  the  unknown  seizes  upon 
the  imagination  and  demands  an  explanation, 
because  the  brain  of  man  has  in  the  process  of 
development  reached  a  larger  growth,  does  the 
fear  of  death  become  oppressive.  The  fear  is 
largely  selfish,  and  from  it  escape  is  possible 
through  either  religious  or  altruistic  channels :  the 
former  leads  to  an  alliance  with  what  we  dread, 
and  the  latter  conducts  the  mind  away  from  the 
thought  of  self. 

The  "lighting  up  before  death"  to  which  ref- 
erence has  been  made,  and  which  is  often  noticed 
in  persons  who  have  remained,  sometimes  for 
weeks,  in  a  semi-conscious  or  wholly  unconscious 
condition,  is  not  infrequently  attributed  to  psy- 
chological causes,  when  in  reality  it  is  due  to  the 
presence  of  venous  blood  in  the  brain,  caused  by 
the  non-arterialization  of  the  blood.  Thus  the 
mind  often  dwells  on  visions  of  coming  glory  or 
shame,  and  contemplates  heaven  or  hell.  Shak- 
speare  makes  Queen  Catherine,  in  "Henry  VIII.", 
say :  "Saw  you  not  even  now  a  blessed  troop  invite 
me  to  banquet,  whose  bright  faces  cast  a  thou- 
sand beams  upon  me  like  the  sun;  they  promised 
me  eternal  happiness,  and  brought  me  garlands, 
my  Griffith,  which  I  feel  I  am  not  worthy  yet  to 
wear."  Charles  IX.  lived  over  again  the  fearful 
tragedy  of  Saint  Bartholomew's  eve,  and  in  an 
agony  of  soul  cried  out:  "Nurse,  nurse,  what 
murder!  what  blood!"  The  distinguished  Con- 
federate general,  "Stonewall"  Jackson,  started  up 


302       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

from  a  deep  sleep,  exclaiming,  "Let  us  go  over 
the  river,  and  sit  under  the  refreshing  shadow  of 
the  trees."  For  hours  before  his  death  his  mind 
was  occupied  with  the  thought  of  trees  and  of  the 
beauty  of  nature.  Thurlow  Weed,  an  American 
journalist  of  distinction,  thought  during  his  last 
hours  that  he  was  conversing  with  President  Lin- 
coln and  General  Scott. 

A  number  of  experiments  of  various  kinds  have 
been  conducted  by  psychologists  and  others  with 
the  hope  of  finding  out  the  character  of  the  sensa- 
tions— if  there  are  any — which  accompany  the 
approach  and  experience  of  death.  Preaching  at 
Saint  Pancras  Parish  Church  some  time  ago,  the 
Bishop  of  London — who  had  recently  undergone 
a  slight  operation — stated  to  his  hearers  his  be- 
lief that  the  anaesthetic  which  was  given  him  at 
the  time  disclosed  to  him  something  of  the  mystery 
of  death.  He  said:  "At  an  operation,  when  you 
receive  whatever  it  is  that  makes  you  for  the  time 
being  insensible,  you  seem  to  be  carried  for  the 
moment  out  of  the  body — the  body  is  for  the  time 
dead.  Your  spirit,  your  mind,  is  perfectly  active. 
I  doubt  not  it  is  the  experience  of  many  others 
that  you  seem  to  be  swept  swiftly  under  the  stars 
toward  your  God.  When  you  are  out  of  the  body, 
or  seem  to  be,  if  only  for  a  few  moments,  you 
realize  what  death  will  be."  But  the  Bishop  as- 
sumed what  remains  to  be  proved, — that  there  are 
any  sensations  connected  with  death.  Oliver 
Wendell    Holmes   thought    that    chloroform   had 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     303 

done  for  him  precisely  what  the  Bishop  of  London 
thought  it  had  accomphshed .  in  his  case.  Dr. 
Hohnes  has  recorded  that  when  the  anaesthetic  was 
taking  effect  he  experienced  a  strange  thrill  which 
seemed  to  take  possession  of  his  entire  body.  Like 
Hamlet  he  said  to  himself,  "Quick,  my  tablets :  let 
me  write  it  down !"  But  on  recovering  his  senses 
he  found  that  the  marvellous  disclosure  with  re- 
gard to  death  which  he  was  so  anxious  to  set  down 
was  all  summed  up  in  these  words,  "A  strong  smell 
of  turpentine  pervades  the  whole."  The  disclos- 
ures of  anaesthetics  are  very  much  like  those  of 
Spiritualism,  brilliant  and  hope-inspiring  while 
the  intoxication  lasts,  but  inexpressibly  foolish 
and  even  silly  when  once  the  mind  has  regained 
control  of  its  faculties.  Professor  William  James 
says,  in  his  "Varieties  of  Religious  Experience," 
"Nitrous  oxide  and  ether,  especially  nitrous  oxide, 
when  sufficiently  diluted  with  air,  stimulate  the 
mystical  consciousness  in  an  extraordinary  degree. 
Depth  beyond  depth  of  truth  seems  revealed  to 
the  inhaler.  This  truth  fades  out,  however,  or 
escapes  at  the  moment  of  coming  to ;  and  if  any 
words  remain  over  in  which  it  seemed  to  clothe 
itself,  they  prove  to  be  the  veriest  nonsense.  Nev- 
ertheless, the  sense  of  a  profound  meaning  having 
been  there  persists;  and  I  know  more  than  one 
person  who  is  persuaded  that  in  the  nitrous  oxide 
trance  we  have  a  genuine  metaphysical  revela- 
tion." 

The  "sense  of  a  profound  meaning"  certainly 


304.       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

remained  In  the  case  of  the  Bishop  of  London. 
But  I  think  we  may  all  of  us  be  quite  sure  that  for 
the  scientific  mind  no  help  in  understanding  death 
will  ever  come  from  drugs  or  chemicals  of  any 
kind. 

The  same  phenomena  mark  the  rise  and  decline 
of  life.  The  circulation  of  the  blood  first  an- 
nounces existence,  and  ceases  last.  The  right 
auricle  pulsates  first,  and  does  not  cease  until 
death  supervenes.  The  mind  loses  the  faculty  of 
association;  judgment  gives  place  to  recollection; 
and  the  senses  vanish  in  succession.  The  ruling 
passion  is  often,  though  concealed  from  child- 
hood, revealed  in  the  hour  of  death ;  and  the 
thoughts  of  boyhood  bound  into  the  sunset  of  de- 
clining age. 

Ill 

It  is  sometimes  said  that  it  can  be  of  little 
consequence  to  a  man  what  disposition  the  liv- 
ing make  of  his  body  when  once  the  breath  of 
life  has  departed  from  him.  But  history  and 
common  experience  show  us  that  nothing  of  the 
kind  can  be  true.  Though  we  may,  when  dead, 
have  no  consciousness  of  our  condition  nor  of  any 
posthumous  honors  paid  us,  still  while  we  live  it 
gives  us  pleasure  to  think  that  we  shall  when  dead 
be  remembered  with  regard  and  buried  amid  sa- 
cred and  beautiful  associations.  The  desire  for 
imperishable  fame  that  nerves  the  soldier  and  in- 
spires the  poet  is  an  illustration  of  man's  concern 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     305 

for  himself  and  that  little  handful  of  dust  he  calls 
his  body,  when  the  dream  of  life  is  ended.  How 
anxious  were  the  Egyptians  with  regard  to  the 
preservation  of  their  mummies ;  how  desirous  were 
the  Greeks  to  be  entombed  where  the  living  could 
not  forget  them;  and  how  careful  are  we  to  pre- 
pare places  of  repose  where  at  last  we  may 
mingle  our  dust  with  that  of  loved  ones  in  a  com- 
mon earth.  And  how  many  and  strange  are  the 
special  directions  that  have  been  given  with  re- 
gard to  the  burials  and  tombs  of  distinguished 
men.  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide  requested  that 
he  might  rest  where  a  leafy  tree  cast  its  refresh- 
ing shadow;  and  it  was  his  special  wish  that  the 
birds  might  be  fed  every  day  from  the  stone  over 
his  grave.  Four  holes  in  that  stone  were  to  hold 
the  yellow  corn  for  the  heavenly  choir  of  "feath- 
ered minnesingers."  Alexander  Wilson,  the  orni- 
thologist, just  before  his  death  asked  to  be  buried 
where  the  birds  could  sing  to  him.  John  Howard, 
the  philanthropist,  wished  above  all  things  that  a 
sun-dial  might  mark  his  grave.  Humphry  Rep- 
ton,  whose  "Landscape  Gardening  and  Landscape 
Architecture"  will  always  delight  the  thoughtful 
reader,  was  anxious  that  his  last  resting  place 
should  be  ''a  garden  of  roses."  Over  his  grave 
beside  the  Church  of  Aylesham,  in  Norfolk,  Eng- 
land, a  wild  rose-bush  fills  the  summer  air  with 
fragrance.  John  Zisca  had  a  grim  delight  in  be- 
lieving that  from  his  skin  was  to  be  made  a  drum, 
at  sound  of  which  his  enemies  would  fly  in  terror. 


306       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

Jeremy  Bentham  left  directions  that  his  skeleton 
should  be  clothed  in  the  garments  he  wore  when 
living,  and  that,  seated  in  a  chair,  staff  in  hand, 
he  should  be  preserved  in  the  museum  of  a  medi- 
cal college.      There  are  also  many  instances  of 
this  thoughtfulness  with  regard  to  the  last  rest- 
ing place  in  the  literature  of  ancient  Greece  and 
Rome.     Very  beautiful  are  the  Hnes  of  Leonidas 
in  which  Clitagoras  asks  that  when  he  is  dead  the 
sheep  may  bleat   above  him,   and  the   shepherds 
pipe  from  the  rock  as  they  gaze  in  quiet  glad- 
ness  along   the  valley,   and   the   countryman   in 
spring  pluck  a  meadow  flower  and  lay  it  on  his 
grave.     There  is  a  lovely  Greek  poem  that  bids 
the  mountain-brooks  and  cool  upland  pastures  tell 
the  bees,  when  they  go  forth  anew  on  their  flowery 
way,  that  their  old  keeper  fell  asleep  on  a  Win- 
ter night  and  will  not  come  back  with  Spring. 
A  Greek  epitaph  invites  the  wayfarer  to  "sit  be- 
neath the  poplars  when  weary,  and  draw  water 
from  the  spring ;  and  ever  remember  the  fountain 
was  made  by  Simus  as  a  memorial  of  his  dead 
child."      Another    Greek   epitaph   reads:    "Dear 
Earth,  take  old  Amyntichus  to  thy  bosom,   re- 
membering  his    many   labors   on   thee;   for   ever 
he  planted  in  thee  the  olive-stock,  and  often  made 
thee  fair  with  vine-cuttings,  and  filled  thee  with 
herbs  and  plenteous  fruits:  do  thou  in  return  lie 
softly    over   his    grey    temples    and    flower    into 
tresses  of  Spring-herbage."     How  delightful  the 
prayer    of    an  old    Greek:    "May    flowers    grow 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     307 

thick  on  thy  newly-built  tomb,  not  the  dry 
bramble,  nor  the  evil  weed,  but  violets  and  mar- 
joram and  wet  narcissus.  Around  thee  may  all 
be  roses." 

Perhaps  one  of  the  greatest  benefits  derived 
from  the  thought  of  our  common  mortality  is 
the  liberation  from  fear  which  it  confers  upon 
minds  that  have  long  felt  the  oppressive  weight 
of  dark  and  distressing  apprehension.  Hundreds 
and  thousands  of  our  race  are  rendered  miserable 
all  their  days  by  the  lonely  shadow  of  death. 
The  Anglo-Saxon  especially,  who  views  the  world 
through  serious  eyes  and  is  never  long  separated 
from  his  conscience,  is  a  victim  of  the  tormenting 
dread  of  dissolution.  This  distressing  alarm, 
which  has  in  so  many  cases  deprived  life  of  all  its 
sweetness,  may  be  overcome  and  even  entirely  dis- 
pelled by  a  calm  and  reasonable  consideration  of 
death.  It  has  seemed  to  many  thoughtful  per- 
sons that  Walt  Whitman  has  accomplished  for 
himself  and  his  readers  something  of  the  kind  in 
that  wonderful  invocation  to  Death  from  which 
extracts  have  been  already  selected  for  the  read- 
ers of  this  paper,  and  which  is,  as  John  Bur- 
roughs has  pointed  out,  the  climax  of  the  superb 
poem  written  to  commemorate  the  death  of  Pres- 
ident Lincoln,  "When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door- 
Yard  Bloom'd." 

Cardinal  Manning  has  this  to  say  about  the 
well-nigh  universal  dread  of  death:  "So  long  as 
God  intends  a  man  to  live  He  wisely  infuses  into 


308       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

his  soul  a  certain  natural  dread  and  horror  of 
death,  in  order  that  he  may  be  induced  to  take  or- 
dinary car©  of  himself  and  to  guard  against 
danger  and  needless  risks.  But  when  God  in- 
tends a  man  to  die  there  is  no  longer  any  object 
for  such  fear.  It  can  serve  no  further  purpose. 
What  is  the  result.?  Well,  I  take  it,  God  simply 
withdraws  it."  It  is  true  that  men  who  are  long 
at  the  gate  of  death  lose  much  of  that  dread  of 
dissolution  which  renders  so  many  lives  wretched. 
Sometimes  this  deliverance  is  called  "Dying 
Grace,"  and  sometimes  it  is  called  by  another 
name;  but  still  the  victory  is  to  the  man  who  ac- 
customs himself  to  frequent  and  natural  views  of 
death. 

In  all  ages  and  in  every  country  men  have  en- 
tertained a  reverence  for  the  dead,  and  yet  the 
opening  of  tombs  has  continued.  In  some  cases 
the  impelling  motive  was  desire  for  knowledge,  in 
others  it  was  hatred  of  the  dead,  and  in  still  others 
it  was  a  desire  to  honor  those  who  had  made  them- 
selves a  name  in  the  world's  regard. 

However  unattractive  may  be  the  twisted  sack 
of  bones  that  now  represent  the  once  beautiful 
queen  of  ancient  Egypt,  of  whom  "legends  of 
passion  were  writ  in  pain,"  and  whose  name  will 
be  ever  associated  with  that  of  the  Roman  An- 
tony in  song  and  story,  the  mummy  of  Seti  I. 
(1327-1275  B.  C),  which  was  found  in  the  tomb 
of  Her-Hor  and  may  be  seen  in  the  Soane  Mu- 
seum,   is    certainly    pleasing    to  look  upon.      It 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     309 

helps  us  to  believe  what  history  records  of 
him,  that  he  was  a  strong  and  noble  ruler  who 
covered  the  shores  of  the  Nile  with  beautiful 
shrines  and  temples,  and  who  did  much  to  develop 
artistic  and  literary  excellence  in  the  aspiration 
and  attainment  of  his  people.  Dr.  Ward,  in  an 
instructive  book  on  "The  Sacred  Beetle,"  writes: 
"The  only  ro^'al  mummy  that  is  pleasing  to  look 
upon  is  that  of  Seti  I.  His  features  are  calm, 
dignified,  and  noble.  His  arms  crossed  on  his 
breast  give  him  the  appearance  of  one  who 
sleeps."  The  monarch's  sarcophagus,  which  is 
one  of  the  finest  and  most  costly  yet  discovered, 
is  carved  out  of  one  block  of  transparent  alabas- 
ter and  is  elaborately  ornamented  in  every  part 
with  the  most  graceful  and  artistic  figures. 

The  wooden  coffins  of  the  Egyptians  are  not 
all  of  them  alike  in  either  shape  or  decoration. 
The  earliest  are  rectangular  and  devoid  of  em- 
bellishment, and  have  only  a  very  short  inscrip- 
tion carved  upon  the  lid  and  in  some  cases  cut 
into  the  sides.  The  lid  was  ornamented  with  hu- 
man faces  constructed  of  bits  of  wood  fastened 
to  the  coffin  bj-  pegs.  Later  gaudy  colors  made 
their  appearance.  Elaborate  and  extended  in- 
scriptions, sometimes  conveying  an  entire  chap- 
ter from  the  "Book  of  the  Dead,"  took  the  place 
of  the  quiet  and  simpler  inscriptions  that  pre- 
vailed in  earlier  times.  In  the  XlXth  Dynasty 
coffins  began  to  conform  in  shape  to  that  of  the 
mummy,  and  a  well-modeled   face,  having  eyes 


310       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

let  into  some  harder  material  and  wooden  hands 
crossed  over  the  breast,  came  to  be  a  common  kind 
of  decoration.  In  this  Dynasty  the  custom  began 
to  prevail  of  encasing  the  dead  in  three,  and  even 
five  coffins,  all  of  which  were  carefully  and  elabo- 
rately painted.  Religious  scenes,  and  pictures 
taken  from  the  life  of  the  dead  man,  came  to  be 
regarded  as  necessary ;  and  these  were  painted, 
often  at  great  cost,  not  only  upon  the  lids  but 
upon  the  sides  of  the  coffins. 

After  the  decoration  was  completed  all  the 
coffins  were  coated  with  a  thick  yellow  varnish. 
The  art  of  coffin-making  continued  to  develop  up 
to  the  XXVIth  Dynasty,  after  which  period  a  de- 
generation commenced  which  soon  resulted  in  a 
general  disregard  for  those  sacred  associations 
which  in  all  lands  gather  about  the  tombs  of  the 
dead.  But  in  all  the  deterioration  that  came  to 
the  undertaker's  art  in  ancient  Egypt  there  never 
arrived  a  period  when  the  cheap,  machine-manu- 
factured casket  of  the  present  day  would  have 
been  tolerated.  There  is  now  a  feeling  every- 
where prevalent  that  it  is  a  waste  of  money  to 
decorate  a  coffin  that  must  be  covered  over  with 
earth  or  consumed  in  the  flames  of  a  crematorium. 
The  Egyptians  embalmed  their  dead,  and  the 
coffins  were  deposited  in  large  tombs  beautifully 
decorated.  We  wish  to  have  our  dead  return  to 
the  earth  so  soon  as  possible,  but  the  Egyptian, 
moved  by  his  religious  belief,  sought  to  preserve 
the  body  which  he  had  carefully  embalmed  so 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     311 

that  it  might  not  decay.  With  all  our  thought 
of  the  resurrection,  and  with  all  the  tender  en- 
dearments of  modern  civilized  life,  we  treat  our 
dead  with  little  respect.  We  see  them  encased  in 
cheap,  unadorned  boxes  often  covered  with  black 
broadcloth  to  conceal  the  poverty  of  the  material 
out  of  which  the  box  is  constructed.  We  see 
those  boxes  lowered  into  deep  pits  which,  after 
they  have  received  their  sacred  treasures,  are 
swiftly  and  unceremoniously  filled  with  loose  earth 
and  stones.  The  beauty  of  our  modern  garden- 
cemetery  only  renders  more  appalling  to  the 
thoughtful  mind  the  revolting  corruption  that 
beneath  carved  marble  and  fragrant  flowers 
awaits  our  abandoned  dead.  Cremation  is  a  great 
improvement  upon  earth-burial.  The  urn  is  bet- 
ter than  the  coffin.  But  the  modern  rude  casket 
is  inexcusable  when  we  remember  the  artistically 
constructed  and  elegantly  adorned  coffin  of  the 
Egyptian  of  three  and  four  thousand  years  ago. 

The  robbing  of  graves  is  not  a  new  thing. 
Against  it  the  kings  of  old  Egypt  sought  to  de- 
fend themselves.  Abundant  evidence  is  furnished 
by  the  condition  of  some  of  the  coffins  when  dis- 
covered, and  in  not  a  few  cases  by  the  misplace- 
ment or  entire  absence  of  the  mummy,  that  the 
ancient  tenants  of  the  tomb  had  been,  in  a  num- 
ber of  instances,  disturbed  in  their  long  rest  many 
centuries  ago  by  grave-robbers. 

It  is  an  interesting  fact,  and  one  that  has  oc- 
casioned much  discussion,  that  while  there  remain 
to  this    day    hundreds    of    elaborate    and    costly 


312       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

tombs,  many  of  them  retaining  much  of  their 
original  beauty,  there  are  hardly  any  ruins  of 
Egyptian  dwellings.  There  may  be  found 
along  the  shores  of  the  Nile  great  temples  that 
preserve  in  stone  the  architectural  concep- 
tions of  early  centuries,  but  nothing  of  im- 
portance remains  of  the  humbler  structures 
once  associated  with  the  domestic  life  of 
the  Egyptian  people.  The  mystery  remains 
such  no  longer  when  once  the  pages  of  Di- 
odorus  are  turned.  "The  Egyptians,"  he  tells 
us,  "call  their  houses  hostelries,  on  account  of 
the  short  time  during  which  they  inhabit  them, 
but  the  tombs  they  call  eternal  dwelling-places." 
Their  houses  they  builded  of  perishable  material, 
but  their  temples  and  tombs  they  cut  out  of  solid 
rock.  The  men  who  dwelt  upon  the  shores  of  the 
sacred  Nile  in  the  early  dawn  of  our  human  his- 
tory believed  that  after  the  lapse  of  many  cen- 
turies they  should  return  to  reinhabit  their 
earthly  frames.  To  preserve  the  dead  body  from 
decay  that  it  might  be  in  condition  for  occupancy 
when  again  claimed  by  the  immortal  soul  was  the 
absorbing  desire  of  all  classes  and  conditions  of 
men.  The  years  of  life  on  earth  were  few,  and 
for  their  every  purpose  a  frail  and  inexpensive 
structure  was  good  enough,  but  for  the  vast 
period  of  time  during  which  the  tomb  must  fur- 
nish enduring  shelter  all  the  arts  of  the  embalmer 
were  called  for.  Through  circling  ages  that  no 
human  intellect  could  measure  those  tombs  were 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     313 

to  be   trusted   to   preserve   the   sacred   inclosures 
committed  to  their  care. 

The  general  structure  of  all  Egyptian  tombs 
was  the  same.  Each  consisted  of  three  parts — 
a  chamber  or  series  of  chambers  forming  what 
we  should  in  these  days  call  a  chapel;  a  passage 
or  shaft  leading  from  the  outer  chamber  to  the 
sepulchral  chamber;  and  the  sepulchral  chamber 
itself  where  were  deposited  the  mummies.  Men 
were  more  desirous  of  owning  a  tomb  than  of  pos- 
sessing a  home,  and  whatever  money  a  man  had  to 
spare  he  invested  in  a  depository  for  his  own  body 
and  for  those  of  the  members  of  his  family.  The 
tombs  of  the  wealthy  were  elaborately  decorated 
with  sacred  scenes  representing,  in  most  cases, 
the  occupations  of  their  owners.  In  a  little  secret 
depository  in  the  wall  were  placed  the  Ka  statues ; 
the  depository  connected  with  the  chamber  of  the 
mummies  by  a  small  aperture  through  which  the 
smoke  of  incense  could  penetrate  to  the  statues. 
When  the  tomb  was  cut  out  of  solid  rock,  the 
inner  chamber  where  the  dead  were  placed  was 
reached  by  a  deep  shaft  (the  deepest  of  which  we 
have  knowledge  is  that  In  the  tomb  of  Bakt  III. 
at  BenI  Hasan;  it  is  over  105  feet  deep)  which, 
after  the  body  had  been  deposited,  was  filled  with 
rubble  that  the  place  of  sepulture  might  be  con- 
cealed. 

Every  effort  was  made  to  outwit  the  grave- 
robber.  Valuable  mummies  were  taken  from  cav- 
ern to  cavern  in  order  to  preserve    them    from 


314       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

sacrilege.  Strange  were  some  of  the  experiences 
that  befell  a  number,  and  it  may  be  all,  of  the 
distinguished  refugees  who  were  sheltered  in  the 
cavern  of  Her-Hor.  Inscriptions  have  been 
found  upon  many  of  the  mummy-cases  and  ban- 
dages that  reveal  the  fact  that  the  mummies  were 
periodically  examined  by  official  Inspectors  of 
Tombs,  who  renewed  the  wrappings  when  neces- 
sary and  repaired  the  coffins.  These  Inspectors 
had  full  control  and  care  of  the  illustrious  dead, 
and  could  remove  them,  in  case  of  necessity,  to 
other  tombs,  and  do  whatever  was  required  for 
their  safe  preservation.  Inscriptions  found  upon 
the  mummy-cases  of  Seti  I.  and  Rameses  II.,  and 
upon  those  of  other  Egyptian  monarchs,  made  in 
marking-ink,  tell  how  the  priests  and  Inspectors 
had  from  time  to  time  examined  and  repaired  the 
casements  and  coffins  and  had  re-decorated  the 
hands  and  faces  of  the  dead. 

In  the  Sixteenth  Century  another  enemy  of  the 
mummy  appeared  in  the  apothecary-,  who  main- 
tained that  the  substance  of  the  mummy  was,  in 
one  form  or  another,  valuable  as  a  medicine. 
French  physicians  used  it  in  the  treatment  of 
nearly  every  disease  with  which  our  human  race 
is  afflicted.  Francis  I.  carried  with  him  wherever 
he  went  a  mixture  of  pulverized  mummy  and  rhu- 
barb, which  he  believed  to  be  a  sovereign  cure  for 
all  the  accidents,  disorders,  and  dangers  of  life. 
Lord  Bacon  also  held  human  flesh  in  an  embalmed 
condition  to  be  of  great  use  in  staunching  the 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     315 

flow  of  blood.  Boyle  recommended  it  as  better 
than  all  other  medicines  for  the  healing  of  cuts, 
bruises,  and  open  sores.  Lemery  believed  it  to  be 
capable  of  resisting  gangrene.  Shirley,  the 
dramatist,  alludes  to  the  medicinal  use  of  mummy 
in  "The  Bird  Cage" — a  composition  of  some 
merit,  but  with  which  few  in  these  days  have  any 
acquaintance : 

"Make  mummy  of  my  flesh,  and  sell  me  to  the 
apothecaries." 

In  such  great  esteem  was  the  veritable  mummie 
d'EgT/pte  held  that  the  avaricious  tore  open  what- 
ever tombs  could  be  found  along  the  Nile,  and 
soon  an  enormous  trade  in  mummy  was  created. 
The  dead  were  consumed  by  the  living.  The 
gross  superstition  which  made  such  a  species  of 
cannibalism  possible  has  not  yet  wholly  disap- 
peared. The  Arabs  still  beheve  that  mummy- 
powder  is  better  than  all  other  medicines  for 
bruises,  and  their  mantey,  which  is  a  disgusting 
mixture  of  mummy  and  butter,  may  be  had  from 
some  of  the  apothecaries  of  Cairo. 

There  is  still  a  commercial  value  for  mummy 
which  when  powdered  makes  one  of  the  best  of  all 
the  colors  used  by  artists.  Every  dealer  in  oil 
paints  sells  ground  mummy  which,  when  mixed 
with  poppy  oil,  gives  us  the  beautiful  tint  of 
brown  that  artists  use  with  such  eff'ect  in  painting 
the  wavy  hair  with  glints  of  gold  that  give 
glory  to  faces  of  lovely  women.     Mummy  is  a 


316       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

costly  pigment,  but  no  artist  can  do  without  it, 
and  those  who  supply  the  material,  as  well  as 
those  who  use  it,  look  with  anxiety  and  disquietude 
to  a  time  certainly  approaching  when  the  dead 
will  cease  their  ministry  of  art  and  beauty  to  the 
living,  and  it  will  be  no  longer  possible  to  buy 
mummy  and  grind  it  into  the  coloring  matter 
which  the  old  masters  loved,  and  which  a  modern 
art-critic  tells  us  turns  to  pure  gold  in  the  sun- 
light. It  is  certainly  a  pleasant  thought  that  art 
thus  gives  beauty  again  to  those  whom  death  has 
despoiled. 

Perhaps  there  is  not,  after  all,  so  much  sacri- 
lege in  the  opening  and  even  in  the  despoiling  of 
historic  tombs  as  some  have  imagined.  There  are 
no  ties  of  personal  relationship,  and  in  most 
cases  even  the  cIvIHzatlon  itself  with  which  the 
occupant  of  the  tomb  was  acquainted  has  perished. 
What  feeling  of  delicacy  or  sense  of  propriety 
could  suffer  from  the  investigation  of  an  ancient 
mummy-pit  or  a  tomb  like  that  of  Alexander  the 
Great.? 

IV 

The  tomb  of  Achilles  has  been  clearly  iden- 
tified from  ancient  and  reliable  authorities. 
Pliny  and  Quintus  Scamander  indicate  Its  lo- 
cality, and  Homeric  references  confirm  their 
statements.  The  tomb  was  opened  in  1786  by  or- 
der of  Choiseul-GoufBer,  who  was  at  that  time 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     317 

French    Ambassador    at     Constantinople.       Dr. 
Henry  Schliemann  says: 

"A  shaft  was  sunk  from  the  top,  and  the  virgin 
soil  was  reached  at  a  depth  of  twenty-nine  feet. 
The  upper  part  of  the  conical  tumulus  was  found 
to  consist  of  well-beaten  clay  to  the  depth  of  six 
feet;  then  followed  a  compact  layer  of  stones  and 
clay,  two  feet  deep;  a  third  stratum  consisted  of 
earth  mixed  with  sand;  a  fourth  of  very  fine  sand. 
In  the  center  was  found  a  small  cavity,  four  feet 
in  length  and  breadth,  formed  of  masonry  and  cov- 
ered with  a  flat  stone,  which  had  broken  imder  the 
weight  pressing  upon  it.  In  the  cavity  were  found 
charcoal,  ashes  impregnated  with  fat,  fragments  of 
pottery  exactly  similar  to  the  Etruscan,  several 
bones,  easy  to  distinguish  among  which  was  a  tibia, 
and  the  fragment  of  a  skull;  also  fragments  of  an 
iron  sword ;  and  a  bronze  figure  seated  on  a  chariot 
with  horses.  Several  of  the  clay  vases  were  much 
burnt  anc"  vitrified,  whereas  all  the  vessels  were 
unhurt." 

Such  is  Dr.  Schliemann's  description  given  by 
him  in  "Die  Ehene  von  Troja,  nach  dem  Graf  en 
Choiseul-Gouffier,"  but  he  does  not  wish  his  read- 
ers to  understand  that  he  expresses  any  confidence 
in  the  excavation.  He  adds:  "No  one  of  experi- 
ence or  worthy  of  confidence  was  present  at  the 
excavation,  and  scholars  seem  to  have  distrusted 
the  account  from  the  first"  (Hios,  p.  65).  Dr. 
Schliemann  desired  to  explore  the  tomb,  but  as 
the  owner  of  the  land,  who  was  a  Turk,  asked  in 
advance  for  permission  to  sink  a  shaft  the  unrea- 
sonable sum  of  £500,  the  work  was  not  under- 


318       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

taken.  The  articles  found  in  the  tomb,  and  re- 
ported as  above,  may  have  been  placed  in  the 
cavity  to  excite  interest  and  secure  to  the  owner 
of  the  land  a  considerable  sum  from  scholars  who 
would  be  anxious  to  push  investigations.  That 
is  a  difficulty  all  explorers  of  ancient  tombs  have 
to  encounter.  In  Egypt  the  word  of  no  native  is 
to  be  believed.  All  along  the  Nile  modern  an- 
tiquities and  newly  manufactured  mummies  are 
offered  at  every  kind  of  price.  And  not  infre- 
quently veritable  mummies  of  the  greatest  an- 
tiquity are  discovered  by  the  natives  and  are  by 
them  concealed  until  such  time  as  they  can  safely 
dispose  of  them  at  exorbitant  figures.  Miss  Amelia 
B.  Edwards,  who  will  be  remembered  with  grat- 
itude by  all  Egyptologists  and  archaeologists,  de- 
scribes in  an  article  called  "Lying  in  State  in 
Cairo,"  which  she  contributed  to  Harper's  Maga- 
zine, the  discovery  and  arrest  of  a  famous  Arab 
guide  and  dealer  who  was  in  possession  of  a  royal 
tomb,  and  who  had  also  a  hiding-place  where  were 
found  piled  up  thirty-six  mummies  of  kings, 
queens,  princes  and  high-priests. 

Of  the  tomb  of  Achilles  Plutarch  has  this  to 
say:  "Alexander  passed  the  Hellespont  and  came 
to  Troy,  where  he  sacrificed  to  Pallas  and  made  a 
libation  to  the  heroes ;  he  also  poured  oil  upon  the 
tomb  of  Achilles,  and,  according  to  the  accus- 
tomed manner,  he  with  his  friends  ran  about  it 
naked  and  placed  a  crown  upon  it,  pronouncing 
of  Achilles  that  he  was  a  most  happy  and  f  ortun- 


'AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     319 

ate  person ;  for  that  while  he  lived  he  had  so 
good  a  friend  as  Patroclus,  and  when  dead,  that 
he  had  so  famous  a  publisher  as  Homer."  He 
■was  even  more  fortunate,  for  after  a  life  of 
hardship  and  adventure  it  was  his  privilege  to 
die  for  the  beautiful  Polyxena,  daughter  of 
Priam,  for  whose  sake  he  went  unarmed  to  the 
temple  of  Apollo,  where  Paris  slew  him.  And 
so  alike  in  life  and  death  he  was  a  hero,  cele- 
brated in  lofty  song  and  in  the  noblest  story. 


The  Tumulus  of  In  Zepeh  on  the  shore  of 
the  Hellespont  is  supposed  to  be  the  tomb 
of  Ajax.  Pausanias  relates  a  legend  current  in 
his  day  that  the  side  of  the  tumulus  looking 
toward  the  shore  was  washed  away  by  the  action 
of  the  waves,  so  that  the  tomb  could  be  entered 
without  difficulty.  The  remains,  it  is  asserted, 
were  found,  and  were  of  gigantic  proportion. 
The  curious  story  is  confirmed  by  Philostratus, 
who  adds  that  Ajax  must  have  been,  from  the 
bones  that  were  discovered,  a  man  eleven  cubits 
long.  The  tomb  is  said  to  have  been  erected  by 
Hadrian,  who  was  at  the  time  a  visitor  to  Troy. 
Hadrian  kissed  the  bones  and  gave  them  funeral 
honors.  Strabo  also  identified  the  spot  as  the 
tomb  of  Ajax.  Dr.  Schliemann  explored  the  tu- 
mulus and  found  nothing  but  pebbles  and  a  few 
large  bones  which  Professor  Rudolf  Virchow  of 
Berlin  identified  as  horse  bones. 


320       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 
VI 

Plutarch  has  an  account  of  the  finding  of  the 
bones  of  Theseus.  How  much  of  the  narrative  is 
of  historical  value,  and  how  much  is  due  to  the 
primitive    imagination,   it   is   impossible   to   say: 

"Lycomedes,  either  jealous  of  the  glory  of  so 
great  a  man,  or  to  gratify  Menestheus,  having  led 
him  up  to  the  highest  cliif  of  the  island,  on  pretence 
of  showing  him  from  thence  the  lands  that  he  de- 
sired, threw  him  headlong  down  from  the  rock,  and 
killed  him.  Others  say  he  fell  down  of  himself  by 
a  shp  of  his  foot,  as  he  was  walking  there,  accord- 
ing to  his  custom,  after  supper.  At  that  time  there 
was  no  notice  taken,  nor  were  any  concerned  for 
his  death,  but  Menestheus  quietly  possessed  the 
Kingdom  of  Athens.  His  sons  were  brought  up  in 
a  private  condition,  and  accompanied  Elephenor  to 
the  Trojan  war,  but  after  the  decease  of  Menes- 
theus in  that  expedition  returned  to  Athens  and  re- 
covered the  government.  But  in  succeeding  ages, 
besides  several  other  circumstances  that  moved  the 
Athenians  to  honor  Theseus  as  a  demigod,  in  the 
battle  which  was  fought  at  Marathon  against  the 
Medes  many  of  the  soldiers  believed  they  saw  an 
apparition  of  Theseus  in  arms,  rushing  on  at  the 
head  of  them  against  the  barbarians.  And  after 
the  Median  war,  Phaedo  being  archer  of  Athens,  the 
Athenians,  consulting  the  oracle  at  Delphi,  were 
commanded  to  gather  together  the  bones  of  The- 
seus, and,  laying  them  in  some  honorable  place, 
keep  them  as  sacred  in  the  city.  But  it  was  very 
difficult  to  recover  these  relics,  or  as  much  as  to  find 
out  the  place  where  they  lay,  on  account  of  the  in- 
hospitable and  savage  temper  of  the  barbarous  pec- 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     321 

pie  that  inhabited  the  island.  Nevertheless,  after- 
wards, when  Cimon  took  the  island  (as  is  related 
in  his  Life),  and  had  a  great  ambition  to  find  out 
the  place  where  Theseus  was  buried,  he  by  chance 
spied  an  eagle  upon  a  rising  ground  pecking  with 
her  beak  and  tearing  up  the  earth  with  her  talons, 
when  on  the  sudden  impulse  it  came  into  his  mind, 
as  it  were  by  some  divine  inspiration,  to  dig  there 
and  search  for  the  bones  of  Theseus.  There  was 
found  in  that  place  a  coffin  of  a  man  of  more  than 
ordinary  size,  and  a  brazen  spear-head  and  a  sword 
lying  by  it,  all  which  he  took  aboard  his  galley  and 
brought  with  him  to  Athens.  Upon  which  the  Athe- 
nians, greatly  delighted,  went  out  to  meet  and  re- 
ceive the  relics,  with  splendid  processions  and  with 
sacrifices,  as  if  it  were  Theseus  himself  returning 
alive  to  the  city.  He  lies  interred  in  the  middle  of 
the  city,  near  the  present  gymnasium.  His  tomb 
is  a  sanctuary  and  refuge  for  slaves,  and  all  those 
of  mean  condition  that  fly  from  the  persecution  of 
men  in  power,  in  memory  that  Theseus  while  he 
lived  was  an  assister  and  protector  of  the  dis- 
tressed, and  never  refused  the  petitions  of  the  af- 
flicted that  fled  to  him." 

VII 

The  sepulchre  of  the  great  Cyrus,  King  of 
Persia,  was  violated  in  the  days  of  Alexander  the 
Great,  in  such  a  manner  that  his  bones  were  dis- 
placed and  thrown  out ;  and  the  urn  of  gold  that 
was  fixed  in  his  coffin,  when  it  could  not  be 
wholly  pulled  away,  was  broken  off  by  parcels. 
When  Alexander  was  informed  of  the  sacrilege 
he  caused  the  magi  who  were  intrusted  with  the 
care  and  keeping  of  the  tomb  to  be  exposed  to 


823       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

tortures,  in  order  to  extort  from  them  thereby  a 
confession,  and  so  find  out  who  were  the  robbers. 
The  magi,  however,  denied  that  they  had  any 
knowledge  of  the  matter,  and  it  was  never  known 
who  despoiled  the  resting  place  of  Cyrus.  Plu- 
tarch declares  that  Polymachus,  a  noble  Pellean, 
was  the  guilty  one. 

Alexander  died  in  Babylon,  and  there  was  some 
suspicion  of  poison.  Great  as  he  was,  still  his 
corpse  had  to  wait  the  convenience  of  his  mutin- 
ous officers,  who  allowed  the  body  to  remain  un- 
buried  seven  days  in  the  heat  of  Mesopotamia,  at 
the  end  of  which  time  the  embalmers  did  their 
work.  Still  it  was  two  years  before  the  remains  of 
one  who  had  conquered  the  world  and  filled  all 
lands  with  the  glory  of  his  achievements  could  re- 
ceive funeral  honors.  Ptolemeus  received  the 
body  at  Memphis,  and  later  it  found  repose  in 
the  city  of  Alexandria.  But  even  here  the  vicis- 
situdes of  life  pursued  the  dead,  and  Alexander's 
tomb  was  opened  that  the  body  might  be  shown 
to  Augustus  Caesar  after  his  victory  over  Anto- 
nius  and  Cleopatra.  The  body  was  in  a  glass 
coffin  when  Augustus  saw  it,  but  the  royal  curi- 
osity was  not  satisfied,  and  Dion  Cassius  tells  us 
that  Alexander  was  removed  from  his  coffin  that 
the  later  monarch  might  pass  his  hand  over  the 
face  of  the  dead.  When  the  body  was  exposed 
to  the  fresh  air  from  which  it  had  been  long  pro- 
tected, the  nose  crumbled  into  dust.  Diodorus 
Siculus  tells  us  that  Alexander's  first  coffin  was 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     323 

of  beaten  gold,  hammered  to  the  shape  of  the 
body ;  it  was  partly  filled  with  aromatic  spices. 

The  tomb  of  Virgil  is  over  the  entrance  to  the 
old  Grotto  of  Posilipo  at  Naples.  The  tomb- 
chamber  is  a  little  over  sixteen  feet  square,  with 
three  windows  and  a  vaulted  roof.  There  are  in 
the  walls  ten  niches  for  cinerary  urns ;  in  the 
center  there  is  a  rimmed  depression  much  larger 
than  any  of  the  ten,  and  in  this  it  is  supposed  the 
ashes  of  Virgil  were  deposited. 

Travelers  who  visited  the  tomb  in  1326  have 
left  it  upon  record  that  the  poet's  ashes  reposed 
upon  nine  marble  pillars,  but  nothing  is  now 
found  to  suggest  that  such  supports  ever  ex- 
isted. W^hat  has  become  of  the  urn.''  No  one 
knows.  There  is  an  old  story  that  may  be  true 
for  anything  we  know  to  the  contrary,  in  which 
Robert  of  Anjou  is  reported  as  concealing  it  in 
the  Castle  Nouvo,  where  it  may  still  hold  inviolate 
the  precious  dust  that  was  once  the  great  and 
beautiful  Virgil.  Some  say  it  came  into  the  pos- 
session of  a  distinguished  ecclesiastic  who  died  at 
Genoa. 

Virgil  died  at  Brundisium,  September  22,  B.  C. 
19.  In  accordance  with  an  expressed  wish,  the 
urn  containing  his  ashes  was  entombed  upon 
his  Posilipo  estate  near  the  villa  of  Cicero.  Vir- 
gil's Posilipo  property  passed  into  the  hands  of 
Silius  Italicus,  as  did  also  at  a  later  day  the  villa 
of  Cicero,  the  ruins  of  which  extend  down  the 
road  connecting  Naples   with  Pozzuoli    (Puteoli 


SU       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

of  Acts  XXVIII).  The  estate  fell  into  good 
hands  so  far  as  the  memory  of  Virgil  was  con- 
cerned, for  Pliny  tells  us  that  Silius  celebrated 
the  anniversary  of  Virgil's  birth  with  more  so- 
lemnity than  he  observed  in  honoring  his  own 
birthday;  especially  at  Naples,  where  he  used  to 
approach  the  tomb  with  as  much  veneration  as 
if  it  had  been  a  temple  (Lib.  III.  Ep.  7).  Mar- 
tial has  two  epigrams  upon  the  care  Silius  be- 
stowed upon  the  tomb  of  Virgil. 

A  curious  legend  makes  the  Apostle  Paul  visit 
the  last  resting  place  of  Virgil,  there  to  weep  that 
so  noble  a  bard  should  perish  without  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  Gospel.  At  Mantua,  on  St.  Paul's 
Day,  a  hymn  that  commemorates  the  touching 
scene  is  still  sung.  Perhaps  the  Apostle's  was  a 
mistaken  sorrow,  and  it  may  be  he  and  the  great 
Latin  poet  are  now  together  in  that  blessed 
world  for  which  we  all  hope.  God  was  as  merci- 
ful in  the  old  Roman  days  as  he  is  now.  Virgil 
was  temperate  in  his  habits,  pure-minded  and 
chaste  in  an  age  of  profligacy.  He  was  kind, 
unselfish,  and  loyal  to  his  friends.  Perhaps  the 
entire  Roman  world  was  not  so  bad  as  Juvenal 
has  painted  it  in  his  wonderful  Satires.  Its  life 
and  literature  were  not  wholly  evil.  Some  of  the 
best  books  our  world  has  ever  known  came  from 
the  old  Latin  writers.  In  the  funeral  services  of 
the  Romans,  and  in  the  way  in  which  they  re- 
membered the  dead,  there  was  always  manifest  a 
deep  and  tender  domestic  feeling.    No  doubt  there 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     325 

were  in  Rome,  even  in  its  most  degenerate  days, 
loving  hearts  and  pure  souls  that  preserved  upon 
the  altar  of  piety  the  clear  flame  of  spiritual 
aspiration.  Thus  believed  Hamilton  Aide,  who 
tells  us  in  a  beautiful  poem  how  a  voice  from  an 
old  Roman  tomb  uttered  such  words  as  these: 

"Oblivion  quickly  gathers  round  our  lives: 

The   spade   may    strike   some   urn   that   tells   of 
Fame, 
But  of  the  struggle  of  that  life  survives 
Naught  save  an  empty  name! 

Our  Race  is  passed  away.     At  dead  of  night 
The  Master  called  us;  and  we  did  his  will. 
Ye,  who  through  widening  avenues  of  hght 
Are  gathering  knowledge  still, 

Who,  to  the  Poet's  accumulated  wealth, 

Add,  day  by  day,  fresh  stores  that  inward  roll, 
The  large  experience  that  bringeth  health 
And  wisdom  to  the  soul, 

Learn  yet  one  thing:  He  who  is  wise  alone 
Leadeth  in  every  age  His  children  home; 
And  He,  beholding,  something  found  to  love. 
Even  in  Pagan  Rome." 

It  may  be  interesting  in  this  connection  to 
call  to  mind  the  customs  and  forms  observed  by 
the  Romans  in  the  inurning  of  the  ashes  of  the 
dead,  and  in  the  depositing  of  the  urn  in  the  col- 
umbarium. The  nearest  relative  fired  the  funeral 
pile  with  averted  face.  When  the  flames  had 
done  their  work  and  the  wood  and  flesh  were  re- 


326       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

duced  to  ashes,  the  glowing  embers  were  sprinkled 
with  wine  and  milk.  The  bones,  and  in  some  cases 
the  ashes,  whether  of  the  pyre  or  of  the  body, 
were  carefully  gathered  and  placed  with  fragrant 
spices  in  an  urn,  sometimes  of  great  cost  and 
beauty.  Before  this,  however,  the  bones  and 
ashes  were  folded  in  a  linen  cloth  where  they  were 
left  a  short  time  that  they  might  become  per- 
fectly dry.  The  urn  was  sprinkled  with  old 
wine  and  new  milk,  after  which  it  was  ready  for 
deposit  in  the  columbarium,  which  had  been  ren- 
dered fragrant  by  the  sprinkling  of  perfumes 
and  the  burning  of  incense.  By  the  side  of  the 
urn  in  the  columbarium  or  tomb  were  deposited 
lamps  and  lachrymatoria,  so  called,  which  were 
in  reality  phials  containing  perfumes,  and  not 
tear-bottles.  Then  came  the  tender  and  last  fare- 
well to  the  dead.  All  present  were  sprinkled  with 
lustral  water,  and  the  ilicit,  or  word  of  dismissal, 
was  spoken. 

Nine  days  after  the  funeral  there  were  observed 
the  novendialia  or  feriae  novendiales,  with  sacri- 
fices and  a  funeral  repast  to  which  guests  were 
sometimes  invited.  These  repasts  were  usually 
quiet  and  simple,  but  there  are  on  record  instances 
of  great  prodigality,  as  that  of  Q.  Maximus, 
who,  after  the  death  of  Africanus,  invited  the  en- 
tire Roman  people  to  partake  of  his  hospitality. 
On  the  anniversaries  of  the  birth  and  death  of  a 
dear  friend,  beautiful  wreaths  and  flowers  were 
deposited  upon  the  tomb  or  taken  into  the  colum- 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     327 

barium  and  placed  upon  the  urn ;  and  every  year 
in  the  month  of  February  was  celebrated  a  day 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  the  dead. 

Many  centuries  ago,  musing  by  the  tomb  of 
Virgil,  a  Latin  poet  wrote  these  lines: 

"Lo!  idly  wandering  on  the  sea-beat  strand 

Where  the  famed  Siren  on  Ausonia's  land 

First    moored    her    bark,    I    strike   the    sounding 

string; 
At  Virgil's  honored  tomb  I  sit  and  sing; 
Warmed  by  the  hallowed  spot,  my  muse  takes  fire. 
And  sweeps  with  bolder  hand  my  humble  lyre. 
These  strains,  Marcellus,  on  the  Chalcian  shores 
I  penned,  where  great  Vesuvius  smokes  and  roars. 
And  from  his  crater  ruddy  flames  expires, 
With  fury  scarce  surpassed  by  Etna's  fires." 

Petrarch,  it  is  said,  planted  a  bay-tree  by  the 
tomb  of  Virgil  to  replace  one  that  was  originally 
there,  but  that  perished  when  Dante  died  in  1290. 
It  was  at  the  tomb  of  Virgil  that  Boccaccio  re- 
nounced the  career  of  a  merchant  and  dedicated 
his  life  to  the  cultivation  of  poetry  and  to  the 
study  of  literature. 

The  Augustan  Mausoleum  at  Rome  was 
broken  into  by  Gothic  soldiers  who  hoped  to  find 
in  it  great  treasure,  at  the  time  of  the  sack  of 
the  Imperial  City  in  the  year  406.  It  is  said 
that  there  had  long  been  prophetic  warnings  that 
the  tomb  would  be  violated  and  its  dead  cast 
forth  to  be  trodden  under  foot  of  the  living. 
Suetonius  and  Dion  record  portents  that  filled 
the  mind  with  fear  and  occasioned  anxiety  in  the 


328       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

hearts  of  men.  The  first  ashes  deposited  in  the 
Augustan  Mausoleum  were  those  of  Marcellus, 
son  of  Octavia,  Augustus'  sister,  by  her  first  hus- 
band, Claudius  Marcellus.  This  young  man, 
the  Emperor's  nephew,  was  his  destined  heir,  and 
his  death  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  B.  C.  22,  was 
the  cause  of  wide-spread  sorrow.  Twelve  years 
before  Christ  the  ashes  of  Agrippa,  and  one  year 
later  the  remains  of  Octavia,  were  placed  in  the 
Mausoleum.  After  the  deposit  of  the  ashes  of 
Nerva  in  the  year  96  A.  D.  the  tomb  was  per- 
manently closed.  The  Gothic  soldiery  destroyed 
the  contents  of  the  Augustan  Mausoleum  and 
scattered  the  bones  of  the  dead.  The  ashes  of 
Agrippina,  the  wife  of  Germanicus,  escaped, 
however,  and  the  urn  which  contained  them  was 
discovered  in  modern  times ;  but  what  has  now  be- 
come of  it  no  one  knows. 

The  opening  of  the  tomb  of  the  Scipios,  on  the 
Appian  Way,  Rome,  in  1780,  created  great  ex- 
citement. The  most  highly  cultivated  men  of 
Italy  were  profoundly  interested  in  the  excava- 
tion, and  Verri  produced  upon  that  occasion  his 
"Notti  Romane,"  which  is  justly  ranked  among 
the  classic  productions  of  modern  Italian  litera- 
ture. A  sarcophagus  was  found  containing  the 
skeleton  of  L.  Cornelius  Scipio  Barbatus,  Consul 
297 ;  and  near  the  sarcophagus  was  a  bust  sup- 
posed to  be  that  of  the  poet  Ennius,  the  friend  of 
Scipio  Africanus.  There  is  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve the  bust  is  really  that  of  Ennius,  as  it  is 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     329 

known  that  he  requested  to  be  buried  in  the  tomb 
of  the  Scipios,  and  it  was  generally  believed  at 
the  time  that  his  request  had  been  complied  with. 
Both  sarcophagus  and  bust  were  removed  to  the 
Vatican  by  Pius  VII.  The  skeleton  of  Scipio 
Barbatus  is  described  as  having  been  perfect  in 
every  way  and  white  as  snow.  It  was  removed 
by  a  Venetian  senator,  who  constructed  for  it  a 
tomb  and  a  monument  at  his  villa  near  Padua. 

VIII 

The  fear  of  being  buried  alive  has  occasioned 
in  many  minds  the  greatest  anxiety  and  distress. 
So  apprehensive  have  men  been,  that  some  have 
had  recourse  to  strange  and  even  repulsive  meas- 
ures in  their  effort  to  render  premature  inter- 
ment impossible.  Harriet  Martineau  bequeathed 
her  physician  ten  pounds  on  condition  that  he 
amputate  her  head  before  burial.  This  some- 
what startling  method  of  making  it  certain  that 
every  vestige  of  life  had  disappeared  was  later 
so  changed  as  to  secure  to  the  doctor  his  ten 
pounds  for  the  severance  of  the  jugular  vein  only. 
She  wanted  her  brain  given  to  Dr.  Atkinson,  of 
Upper  Gloucester  Place,  London,  for  scientific 
observation.  When  Miss  Martineau  made  her 
home  in  London  the  onl}'  authorized  supply  of 
"subjects"  for  dissection  was  from  the  gallows, 
and  as  a  natural  result  there  followed  the  "Burke 
and  Hare"  murders  and  persistent  "body-snatch- 
ing."    With  the  passing  of  the  Warburton  Bill 


330       EXCURSIONS  OF  A  BOOK-LOVER 

the  difficulty  in  a  measure  disappeared,  and, 
yielding  to  the  solicitation  of  her  friends,  Miss 
Martineau  changed  her  will,  but  to  the  last  she 
insisted  upon  the  severance  of  the  jugular  vein. 
Frances  Power  Cobbe  had  the  same  fear  of  pre- 
mature burial,  and  insisted  upon  the  same  safe- 
guard. Edmond  Yates  left  money  to  his  phy- 
sician with  the  understanding  that  the  same  oper- 
ation was  to  be  performed  upon  his  body  so  soon 
as  life  was  extinct.  Hans  Christian  Andersen 
entertained  a  like  fear  and  provided  a  like  remedy. 
Bishop  Berkeley  and  Daniel  O'Connell  left  spe- 
cial directions  providing  against  premature  bur- 
ial. Berkeley  directed  in  his  will  that  his  body 
should  be  kept  above  ground  more  than  five  days, 
and  until  it  became  "offensive  by  the  cadaverous 
smell."  He  also  directed  that  during  the  time 
it  was  awaiting  burial  it  should  remain  unwashed, 
undisturbed,  and  covered  by  the  same  bed  clothes 
in  the  same  bed. 

I  think  this  fear  of  being  buried  alive  is  one  of 
the  commonest  of  fears.  Wilkie  Collins  was  all 
his  days  in  bondage  to  it ;  he  kept  upon  his  table 
a  letter  addressed  to  any  person  who  should  find 
him  in  an  unconscious  state,  asking  for  the  most 
careful  medical  examination.  I  knew  of  a  man 
who  requested  that  there  might  be  placed  in  his 
coffin  a  loaded  revolver  so  that  in  case  of  prema- 
ture burial  he  might  have  at  hand  the  means  of 
ending  life  at  once.  A  medical  man  requested 
that  there  might  be  deposited  in  his  coffin  a  bottle 


AT  LAST  THE  SILENT  MAJORITY     331 

of  chloroform.  Of  course  the  embalmer's  fluid, 
the  chief  constituent  of  which  is  arsenic,  would 
ensure  death  even  were  the  previous  withdrawal 
of  the  blood  from  its  natural  channels  incompe- 
tent to  bring  about  that  result.  In  these  days  of 
embalming  there  is  little  reason  for  fearing  pre- 
mature interment.  But  once,  no  doubt,  the  dan- 
ger was  great,  and  in  the  past  dreadful  accidents 
happened.  In  tropical  lands,  where  burial  takes 
place  at  once  and  embalming  is  rarely  resorted  to, 
there  is  still  great  danger.  In  the  case  of  an  epi- 
demic of  such  an  infectious  disease  as  cholera  or 
yellow-fever,  or  after  a  battle  where  little  care  is 
taken  to  separate  the  wounded  from  the  dead,  it 
is  quite  possible  to  bury  the  living  with  the  life- 
less. Great  caution  should  be  observed  in  cases 
of  suspended  animation,  and  it  is  well  to  allow 
the  body  to  remain  unburied,  where  there  is  any 
doubt,  until  there  are  signs  of  decomposition. 
Indian  fakirs  who  submit  to  burial  under  certain 
restrictions  and  safeguards  for  a  monetary  con- 
sideration have  the  appearance  of  being  dead 
though  all  the  vital  functions  are  unimpaired. 
We  find  something  of  the  same  kind  in  the  sleep 
of  hibernating  animals.  Bears  pass  several 
months  in  a  state  of  completely  suspended  ani- 
mation. Some  animals,  after  the  winter  sleep  be- 
gins, may  be  frozen  and  yet  retain  life.  There 
is  no  sign  or  group  of  signs  that  can  positively 
assure  us  that  death  has  taken  place  short  of  ac- 
tual putrefaction. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


JAN  31^ 

AUGl  1  1961 


■U' 


Form  L-9-15rrt-2,'36 


UmVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 


•511     Ivkrvin- 
Iv:56e      The   excur- 
sions   of  CL   book- 
lover. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


!l  Hi 


AA    000  577  629    9 


> 


^ 


-tB 


J-f 


